


So Darling, Just Say You’ll Stay Right by My Side

by supernope



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Fluff, M/M, also like three hints at background Ziall, just obscene amounts of fluff, thigh fucking, though there is an embarrassing lack of actual police stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernope/pseuds/supernope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is visibly buzzing with excitement as they get into the police car, and Louis laughs, reaches out to put a hand on Harry’s knee and try and calm him a bit. “Relax, McClane, we’re just stopping in on a few of the local businesses to say hello. No need to sit with one finger on the trigger.”</p><p>“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about me being trigger-happy, Lou,” Harry says with another one of his megawatt grins, patting the water pistol holstered by his hip.</p><p>[AU where Louis is the chief of police in a small sea-side town and Harry is his new deputy who's a bit of a pacifist and a lot wonderful.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Darling, Just Say You’ll Stay Right by My Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [impetuous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impetuous/gifts).



> Okayyyyy so I kind of butchered the original prompt a lot, I'M SO SORRY. This will also require some suspension of disbelief, because I am 100% positive that this is no way resembles what actually goes on at British police stations. I hope you all enjoy this anyway! 
> 
> Thank you SO much to everyone who helped me with this fic, from betas to general hand-holders, you know who you are! I'm sorry I am the neediest writer ever. ♥ Any remaining mistakes are my own!
> 
> Title is from _Be My Forever_ by Christina Perri and Ed Sheeran.

“Morning, Lou!” Niall trips through the front door with rosy cheeks, an enormous smile, and a handful of coffees from the shop on the corner. “Wild night, eh?”

Louis just groans in response and slumps over so he can rest his head on his desk. Niall doesn’t take the hint, though, just skips around the edge of his desk so he can set a cup of steaming coffee by his head and pat him on the back.

“If it’s any consolation, Cher is asleep in her car out front. Got her forehead pressed against the window, like she passed out without meaning to. No need to make sure she’s alive, though, you can see her breath fogging up the glass when she exhales.”

“Please,” Louis rasps, throat dry and aching. He reaches a hand out blindly, waves it about until it connects with Niall’s leg. “Please stop talking.”

Niall just clucks his tongue in sympathy. “I put an extra shot in your coffee, drink up.”

“Bless you, Niall Horan,” Louis moans, lifting his head so he can drag the cup closer. He despises coffee, but he’s got a world class hangover pounding behind his eyes because _someone_ had the brilliant idea of throwing Zayn’s birthday party the night before they all had a weekend shift. In a pub. Louis is going to murder that somebody. As soon as he figures out who it was. And musters up the energy.

“Hey,” Niall calls from his own desk across the room. His voice is muffled, like he’s talking around a mouthful of something. Louis should probably tell him not to eat at his desk, since he’ll apparently be manning the radio _and_ the phones today, but it’s Saturday, tourist season doesn’t start for another five months, and, well. He doesn’t really feel like it. “Hey,” Niall repeats, mouth clear of whatever he was eating. “Doesn’t the new deputy get here today?”

“Fuck,” Louis curses, straightening up in his seat. Niall is right. Bridlington is transferring one of their desk jockeys today because they’d lost Josh to the big city a few weeks ago. “Did we clear Josh’s stuff off the computer and out of the desk?”

“Dunno,” Niall shrugs. “I think Cher was supposed to do it.”

Louis casts a glance toward the front door. He can see the boot of Cher’s car idling in the parking lot, little white clouds of steam puffing out of the muffler intermittently. “D’you think I should go check on her?”

“Nah, let her sleep it off. She organized the party, she deserves it.” Niall rips a huge chunk off his danish and shoves it into his mouth. “What time is the new guy getting here?”

“Um.” Louis stares blankly down at his desk for a moment, trying to remember where he put the interdepartmental note he’d been sent. His brain is moving at a snail’s pace this morning, and, not for the first time, Louis thinks bitterly that working on Saturdays is cruel.

Never mind that he’s the local police chief and they’ve only got two - now three - officers on staff. It takes a minute of sifting through the stack of papers in his inbox to find the little slip with the information on the new deputy. He squints down at it through bleary eyes, lets out a soft, muttered curse and fishes his contact lens case and glasses out of his knapsack. His eyes are too dry for contacts today.

“Nine,” Louis announces, once he’s brought the words into focus. “Should be here any moment, actually.”

He’s only just put the note back down on top of the pile and lifted his cup of coffee to his mouth when the front door jingles open, followed by a string of child-proof swears that have Niall laughing into his tea.

“I’m so sorry,” the person at the door babbles, huffing out a labored breath. Louis hears a scraping noise and finally turns to see what the commotion is. There’s a man forcing himself through the narrow doorway with someone - with _Cher_ \- cradled in his arms. All he can see of the man is the top of a head of curly brown hair where it’s bent over Cher’s prone body and his wobbling legs.

Louis shoves his chair back from his desk and rushes to help him out. “Jesus, mate. You alright there? You got her?”

“Yeah,” the man pants, looking up at him with wide eyes, and Louis finds himself momentarily distracted by the pretty flush to the man’s cheeks and the way his teeth are clamped around his chapped, plump lower lip. “Sorry, she was just passed out in her car out front, and I was worried - she didn’t respond when I knocked on her window.”

Louis pulls the chair at Cher’s desk out so that the man can set her down in it, helps him tip her forward slowly so she’s draped across the surface with her head pillowed on her arms.

“She’s just sleeping off a long night,” Louis reassures the stranger, stroking a hand over Cher’s hair. She’d washed the red out of it after only a week, said it clashed with her skin tone, but there are still hints of it when the sun strikes her head just right. An unconventional police station receptionist, with her multicolored hair and tattoos, but they’re not the most conventional of villages, anyway. When Louis glances up at the man, he’s staring down at Cher, brow furrowed in confusion. “It was our friend’s birthday party. We all had a long night, but she indulged a bit more than the rest of us, you know.”

“Oh.” The man frowns. “Will she be alright?”

“Oh yeah, don’t worry. We used to do this all the time at uni, she’s a pro. It was lovely of you to check on her though, can we offer you some coffee or a scone?” He thumbs over his shoulder at Niall’s desk, where the rest of the coffee cups and a box of pastries is sat.

“Oh, um, I’m alright, thanks. I’m actually - I’m supposed to be meeting with someone? One of you, I’m guessing.” Louis raises an eyebrow at him, and the man rushes to say, “I’m Harry. Harry Styles? I’ve just moved down from Bridlington, I think you were expecting me?”

“The new deputy,” Niall crows, shoving back from his desk so he can lope over to them and pull Harry into a hug. “I’m Niall, I man the radio. And the phones sometimes.”

He glances down at Cher, pats her briefly on the shoulder. Louis snorts and shoves him aside so he can offer Harry a hand to shake. He tries not to notice the way Harry’s hand completely envelops his own, how it’s warm and callused, fingers long and slender.

“I’m Louis Tomlinson, I’m the head of police here in Flamborough. We’ve got one more officer, Liam, but he’s on holiday in France until next week. This will be your desk over here.” Good. Strong. Professional. Not a hint of attraction in the way he looks at or speaks to Harry. Louis hopes. He leads Harry over to the desk beside his own. “We’ve got a name plate coming in from some place in York, but your uniform and badge are all ready for you. Er, they mentioned your gun belt -”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs, ducking his head and ruffling a hand through his hair. “About that.”

“They sort of explained it to me over the phone?” Louis leans back against Harry’s desk so he can study him a bit. He’s smiling sheepishly at Louis, hair a rumpled mess and face still flushed from exertion and wintery, coastal wind-burn. He’s got broad shoulders and a narrow waist and legs that go on forever, and Louis thinks that, if they weren’t working together, he might - but no, that’s a dangerous path to travel down. They haven’t even _begun_ to work together yet, he needs to be professional. Louis shoves the thought to the back of his mind and cocks an inquisitive brow at Harry.

“I don’t like guns,” he states. “They had me working a desk back in Bridlington, but I think they figured that since Flamborough is so small, it wouldn’t really be an issue?”

“It’s not really,” Louis concedes. “I mean, our biggest case -” he emphasizes the word case with finger-quotes, “last year was when the year twelve students egged the school after their GCE’s.”

“I made you something, Harry,” Niall exclaims, head buried in his desk drawer as he rummages through it. He sits back up with a pistol in his hand and waves it at them. Harry visibly recoils, but Niall just laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s not real.”

He aims the pistol at Liam’s desk and presses the trigger, but instead of firing a bullet, it shoots a stream of water. To Louis’ surprise, Harry _giggles_ and claps delightedly, like an over-excited child. Jesus.

“It’s perfect!” Harry wiggles his fingers at it as Niall rounds his desk to bring the water gun to him. Harry takes it carefully and turns it this way and that, examining it.

“I tried to paint it myself, but it kept coming off, so I had to get Zayn to do it.”

Harry glances up from where he’s got his head bent over the little plastic pistol. “Who’s Zayn? Does he work here, too?”

Niall opens his mouth to respond, but Louis cuts him off. They don’t need another hour long lecture on Zayn’s eyelashes and the timbre of his voice. “He’s an artist, writes comic books. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough. He pops by to bring us lunch sometimes.”

“He sounds lovely,” Harry murmurs. He sets the water gun down carefully on the desk, then straightens back up and shakes his fringe out of his eyes. “So, I’ve only just driven down this morning and I was thinking about renting a room at one of the cottages until I can find a flat. Do you have any recommendations?”

Louis starts to make a suggestion, but Niall beats him to it, nearly vibrating with his enthusiasm. “No need, mate! The officer that transferred to London used to be Zayn’s roommate, he’s been wanting someone to move in to his place.”

“Oh,” Harry says quietly, hesitant. “Do you think he’ll mind - I mean, he hasn’t even met me yet -”

“Zayn barely leaves his studio,” Louis interrupts, reaching out to grasp Harry’s shoulder reassuringly. “Josh used to say he was the best roommate anyone could ask for. He’s pretty chill, I wouldn’t worry about it.” He taps Harry’s chest where the Flamborough Police Department logo would be if he were in uniform and smirks, “You’re _probably_ not a serial killer. Niall will call him up, he can come down and meet you, I’m sure.”

Harry blinks at him in surprise, and Louis only just realizes that his eyes are a lovely, clear green, wide and framed by feathery lashes that catch the morning light streaming in through the windows.

“Alright, sure, if you don’t mind while we’re on duty.”

Despite the headache brewing at his temples, Louis rolls his eyes when Niall bursts out laughing and leans forward to slap Harry on the back. “Don’t worry, Hazza. You’ll learn soon enough that if you don’t entertain yourself while you’re on duty, you’ll go mad.”

Harry’s brow furrows adorably and he turns a questioning look on Louis. Louis just shrugs. “He’s pretty much right. It picks up a little in the summer, when tourist season starts, but most of the year, it’s pretty quiet. If you wanted a life of danger and intrigue, you picked the wrong Parish.” Louis pushes off Harry’s desk and shuffles over to his own. “There’s a toilet through that door in the corner, why don’t you go see if the uniform fits okay?”

Harry just nods and scoops the package up into his arms. And if Louis watches him go, watches the way his hips sway a little with his easy, loping gait, well. At least Niall is too busy texting Zayn to notice.

,,

By the time Harry steps out of the toilets, they’ve got music playing and Niall is sitting on Cher’s desk, drawing on her face with a permanent marker. Louis ducks his head to hide a smile when Harry stares on in concern as Niall sketches a crude outline of a penis on her forehead, strains his ears for the sound of Harry striding over to his desk. He looks up in time for Harry to lean close and whisper, “Should we be letting him do that?”

“What?” All of Louis’ thoughts scatter once he gets a good look at Harry in his new uniform. The clean lines of the button-up emphasize the broadness of his shoulders and his narrow waist, and the trousers hug his thighs in a way that is frankly indecent. He’s brought back from mentally rifling through the spare pairs of trousers they have in the back room, wondering if they have a size bigger, when Harry’s eyebrows wing up and he points over at Cher’s desk. “Oh, Niall? Don’t worry about that, Cher dyed his hair blue last time he passed out.”

“Payback’s a bitch,” Niall mutters from his perch on Cher’s desk, just loud enough for Harry and Louis to hear. Cher only furrows her brow and takes a soft, snuffling breath, then relaxes back into sleep.

“Right,” Harry nods, staring doubtfully at Niall as he scribbles odd shapes and wiggly lines into Cher’s cheek. His brow is furrowed, like a concerned puppy, and it’s so adorable that Louis can’t look away, not even when Harry turns his attention back on him and catches him staring. “Er. Is there anything you want me to be doing?”

“Sure,” Louis croaks out. He grimaces and takes a sip from his coffee cup, mutters, “We all had a little too much fun last night.” He smothers a cough in the crook of his elbow, then rolls his seat back so he can rifle through one of his desk drawers. “There are a few forms for you to fill out before I can give you your badge.”

Harry takes the packet from Louis, and Louis watches, charmed, as color floods his cheeks when their fingers tangle around the paper. With a brief shake of his head, Harry murmurs a thank you and moves to shuffle over to his new desk, pauses when Louis says, “Let me know if you need anything, like staples or pens or something. Josh was rubbish at filling out his paperwork, he’s probably just got a bunch of paperclips and an old sandwich in his drawers.”

Harry drops into the creaky old desk chair with a nod and starts to sift through the desk. Head turned toward a small stack of paperwork so he can at least pretend to be working, Louis watches out of the corner of his eye as Harry pulls a rubber band ball nearly double the size of a tennis ball, a handful of toothpicks, some breath mints that look a little dodgy, a folder of unfiled paperwork, and a magazine clip for a police-issue handgun out of the desk. Giving up the pretense of work, Louis watches Harry grimace and pick the magazine up gingerly, set it on the edge of Louis’ desk without a word.

“It’s just a magazine, Hazza, it won’t explode on you,” Louis says with what he hopes is an encouraging smile. He’s a little worried it’s coming off as more besotted than anything, and he’s known Harry for all of a half hour. He might be a bit fucked.

Harry shrugs helplessly at Louis’ statement and says, soft and unapologetic, “Don’t like guns.”

 

Louis spends most of his Saturday helping Harry organize his new desk and carve out a spot for himself in the small building. He sets up photos while Louis dictates how he should arrange them, dutifully moving them every time Louis changes his mind about the order, brings a couple of mugs in from a box in his car, and carefully pens a list for Louis of things he needs for his desk. Louis has to tamp down on a silly smile at the delighted look on Harry’s face when he makes him a label for one of the cubbies so that he can store a spare change of civilian clothes, tries to ignore the way Harry won’t stop touching him - gentle brushes of fingers over the back of his hand, taps to the shoulder or over his bicep when Harry wants his attention, knees knocking together while they crowd around Harry’s desk to try and fix the faulty computer speakers.

Towards the end of the day, the front door jingles, and Louis looks up just as a man walks in, head ducked down against the wind and a beanie pulled low over his forehead. He hears the muffled thump of Niall’s feet falling to the floor from where they’d been propped up on his desk, followed by a rustling of papers. When he looks over toward the opposite side of the room, Niall is furiously shuffling odds and ends across his desk in an attempt to look busy.

“Hiya, Zayn,” Louis grins, shaking his head at Niall. Ridiculous. “New beanie?”

“Hey, Lou,” Zayn responds, looking up so he can smile warmly at everyone in the room. He pauses briefly on Harry’s unfamiliar face, doesn’t even bat an eyelash at Cher’s empty desk - Louis had called her boyfriend to come get her on his lunch break. “Yeah, pretty new, I guess. Mum sent it down so I wouldn’t catch a cold. Hi, Niall. Y’alright?”

Niall’s head snaps up from where he’d been staring down at a stack of blank memo slips. His cheeks are suspiciously pink, but his mouth stretches into a wide grin and he offers Zayn a jerky little wave. “Yeah, great,” Niall babbles. “Busy, you know. Keeping warm? How’s the story coming along?”

Zayn tugs his beanie off so he can shake out his hair. It’s bright in the station, bright enough that Louis can make out the sharp cut of Zayn’s cheekbones, the angles of his jaw, catch the thick fan of his eyelashes and the soft feather of his unstyled fringe where it flops down over his forehead. He glances over at Harry out of the corner of his eye, catches him staring slack-jawed, and tries to ignore an immediate pulse of jealousy.

“It’s alright,” Zayn shrugs. “I scrapped it all last night and started over, but I’ve got about four pages done.” He pauses and looks from Niall to Louis to Harry. “I got a text -”

Niall shoves back from his desk so quickly that his chair topples over, but he doesn’t bother picking it back up, just lopes over to where Zayn is standing by the door and cups a hand over the slender curve of his shoulder so that he can lead him over to Harry’s desk. Harry shoots Louis a wild look, a mixture of terrified and confused at being thrust into this so suddenly, and Louis is torn between wanting to watch this play out, see how Harry and Zayn get on, and wanting to step in and somehow lay claim to Harry, make it clear that Zayn can’t have him. Not that Louis is going to have him, because he’s a _professional_ , and Harry is one of his deputies, but. But.

Niall cuts into Louis’ train of thought with a sharp clearing of his throat. “Zayn, this is Harry. He’s replacing Josh, you know, ‘cause he moved to London.” Niall drops a heavy hand onto Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. “He needs a place to stay, you need a housemate, you’re both nerds, it’s a match made in heaven.” He pauses, then says a little tightly, “A friendship match.”

“Hey,” Harry starts to protest, but Niall just stares pointedly at the water gun and a photo of himself, his mum, and his sister posing like Charlie’s Angels sitting on his desk. Harry snaps his jaw shut and looks up just in time to catch a sympathetic smile and eyeroll from Zayn that tells him this isn’t a new discussion.

“Anyway, Hazza’s things are literally in the boot of his car, so you should probably take him home with you.”

“He’s not a lost puppy, Niall,” Louis snorts. He feels oddly defensive of Harry and is trying his hardest not to scowl at Niall and Zayn.

Harry turns an easy grin on Louis and says, “I always fancied myself more of a cat, anyway.”

 

Harry and Zayn spend the last hour of work chatting while Niall hurls commentary at them from across the room and Louis tries to type up the report from a case they had closed last week. It doesn’t go well, though, too much of Louis’ attention focused on the way Zayn is perched on the corner of Harry’s desk, feet swinging back and forth and brushing up against Harry’s calves every so often, the way Harry is leaning into Zayn and dimpling up at him while they talk. The light of the dying sun coming in through the high windows is glinting off the tips of Harry’s eyelashes, casting them in golden fire and turning his eyes a clear, bottle green. His lips are red and chapped from the harsh winter wind, mouth big and mobile and quick to smile, and Louis starts feeling a bit like a creep with how much he’s been staring at Harry, so with ten minutes left to the day, he pushes back from his desk and slouches down the hall and into the kitchen to make tea for the drive home.

,,

Louis pushes wearily through the station door on Monday morning, body weighed down with exhaustion. He’d spent all of Sunday staring at a slip of paper with Harry’s mobile number on it, telling himself that he only had access to it for work purposes, not so he could ring him up and offer to show him around the village. He’s pretty sure the chief of police is supposed to be an authority figure, stolid and aloof and stern. He’s also pretty sure he’d fucked that right up the moment he’d gotten the job and brought Niall, his flatmate at the time, on to man the radios and hired Cher, his drinking buddy from uni, to answer the phones.

Regardless, he’d made himself tuck the paper into the pocket of his uniform trousers, hadn’t let himself look up the policy on chief-deputy relationships, even though the handbook was sitting right on his kitchen table. Instead, he had fallen asleep on the sofa while reruns of Made in Chelsea flickered across the backs of his eyelids, had consequently woken up with a mean crick in his neck and all of the lights still on in his flat.

Stifling a yawn, Louis shuffles around the small front room and switches on the lights, the copy machine, the two-way radio on Niall’s desk, then moves into the tiny kitchen in the back and flicks on the kettle. He hears the sound of the front door jingling open over the low bubble of boiling water and waits for Niall to burst into the room, too much energy for 8am but too bloody cheerful about it for Louis to be genuinely annoyed. Instead, he hears the click of heels on the hardwood floors and the chime of keys knocking together, his only warning before a heavy-eyed, tousle-haired Harry is walking into the room.

He aims a devastating, sleepy smile at Louis, gives a half-hearted wave as he makes his way over to the refrigerator. “Morning,” Harry rasps, voice thick and throaty and enough to send a ripple of arousal down Louis’ spine that he tries to shake off imperceptibly. “I brought donuts - I don’t know if they’re any good, but it’s the only place I could find that made them and they smelled nice, anyway.”

Louis’ mouth falls open in surprise and he’s just about to respond - say thank you? Tell him they’re actually the best donuts on the planet? Ask if he can kiss Harry on his pretty, chapped lips? He’s saved from potential embarrassment, though, by Niall calling out from the front room, “Oh, sweet, who brought donuts? Dibs on the chocolate one!”

His surprised, stuttery laugh is more awkward than amused, but the kettle clicks off and Louis seizes the opportunity and whirls around, busies himself making a cup of English breakfast. He’s sure he’s in the clear, doesn’t even bother listening for the sound of Harry leaving the room, so nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the gentlest of touches to his elbow.

Harry’s voice is still soft, husky and warm, and his breath smells like mint, when he murmurs, “Is there enough water for a second cup?”

Louis hands the kettle over without a word, trying to ignore the way heat is unfurling from the spot where Harry’s fingertips are still pressed to the back of his arm. _Not normal, not normal, this is not normal_ , Louis chants in his head. He’s known Harry all of two days, has spent a grand total of eight hours with the man, he should not be this affected by proximity alone.

As soon as he can, Louis turns away, whips himself out of Harry’s orbit and makes his escape back out into the front room. Niall is sitting at his desk with his feet kicked up and a donut in each hand while the radio crackles quietly between his feet.

“Morning, boss,” he mumbles around a mouthful of chocolate donut.

Louis grimaces and flicks a nail against the bottom of Niall’s show. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Niall, it’s rude.”

Niall just sticks his tongue, covered in half-masticated pastry, out at Louis with a mad cackle. The door to the station chimes open again, letting in a burst of wintry air that has goosebumps spreading across Louis arms.

“Morning,” Cher trills, three bags hanging off one arm and the other weighted down by her dog.

“Cher, we’ve talked about you bringing that thing to work -”

“I know, I know,” Cher interrupts, dropping her bags onto her desk with a sigh and cradling the dog against her chest. “I had to, though, Charlie is redoing the floors in my house and Craig is on rota at the hospital in Bridlington, I couldn’t just leave him!”

“If that dog pisses in my station one more time,” Louis warns, but he’s cut off by an exclamation of, “Oh, a puppy!”

Harry sets his mug down hurriedly on Louis’ desk and rushes over to Cher, one hand already extended toward the dog. The dog gives Harry’s hand an unsure sniff before deciding he likes Harry and licking his palm. The delighted expression on Harry’s face and the giggle that bursts out of him is so unexpected and adorable that Louis has to bury his face in his hands to avoid staring at Harry like a besotted fool. _Not normal_ , Louis thinks grouchily while he marches over to his desk and plops himself down in the chair with purpose. He’s going to be productive today. He has three case files he needs to close and ship over to the Bridlington precinct, and he’s going to finish all three. He’s not going to let Cher’s dog or Harry’s donuts or the smell of Harry’s shampoo or Harry’s _face_ stop him. He’s not.

 

“Never again,” Louis growls. “I mean it this time.” Cher just sighs and pats his arm, bags full of dog toys and treats banging against his side.

“Relax, Louis, they’re just Vans. I’ll buy you a new pair.””

Louis stares down at what used to be his shoes, but are now just scraggly bits of cloth and rubber. He’s not even sure how the dog got hold of them, just knows that one moment he was walking to the toilet and Harry was clutching the dog in his clearly inexperienced-with-puppies arms, and the next, he was back at his desk and the puppy was underneath it with Louis’ shoes in its mouth.

“I skateboarded to work today,” Louis remembers suddenly, groaning. It’s _freezing_ outside.

A moment later, there’s a hand on his shoulder and Harry is saying, “I could drive you home, if you want.”

“Perfect,” Cher exclaims, taking a step backwards toward the door. “I’ll have your new shoes tomorrow, Lou, night!”

Niall follows Cher out the door with a salute, and then it’s just Harry, Louis, and his ruined shoes. With a sigh, Louis scoops them up and tips them into the rubbish bin by his desk.

“Not a fan of dogs?” Harry asks as Louis follows him out to the car park. It’s freezing outside, the sky heavy and gray with the promise of a frosty rain, the wind coming off the cliffs bitter and sharp and smelling of salt. At least they don’t get snow in Flamborough, Louis thinks, tip-toeing across the frozen asphalt.

“No,” Louis responds, a bit belated. He blames it on the weather slowing down his thoughts. “I mean they’re fine, I had a dog growing up, but I’m more fond of cats, m’self. They don’t need as much training.”

“And you don’t have to walk them,” Harry agrees. He pulls the passenger door of the car open for Louis, waits for him to slide into the seat, then shuts it softly before rounding the hood.

Louis kind of feels like he’s on a date, and even though he _knows_ he isn’t, his stomach still turns over nervously when Harry gets into the car and starts it up, shoots him a shy smile across the console while he turns the heating on. They just kind of sit there smiling at each other as the car heats up, until Louis realizes -

“Oh, you don’t even know where I live.” Harry shakes his head a little bashfully. He’s got his hair quiffed, but it’s starting to fall, thick curls drooping over his forehead and licking at his temples. Louis wants so badly to reach over and brush it out of Harry’s eyes, so instead he slides his hands underneath his thighs and nods toward the road.

The drive to Louis’ flat is short, just down the main strip and back toward the primary school. It’s mostly houses out here, tree-lined streets dotted with cottages and neat little brick houses. Louis’ flat is hidden behind a copse of trees across the street from a park, a small building with only a handful of units. Harry pulls in alongside Louis’ car in front of his door and they sit in awkward silence while Louis debates whether or not he should invite Harry in. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t, considering it’s _not_ actually a date, but it feels polite to. He’s new in town, after all.

Scratching his nose, Louis shuffles around to face Harry and asks, voice too loud in the stark silence of the car, “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?”

Harry looks a bit startled at the question, and Louis curses himself mentally. Should have trusted his instincts, then. Right. But to Louis’ surprise, and relief, Harry’s confusion melts into a warm smile and he breathes, “Sure, I’d like that.”

Louis has about thirty seconds during the walk from the car to his front door to try and recall if he’d left any dirty clothes lying around that morning. He thinks he might be in the clear, saved by a diversionary shopping trip to Bridlington on Sunday that had spurred a rare cleaning spree. He pushes the door open and leads Harry into the flat. It’s small and sparsely furnished, and even though he’s lived here for two years and it still doesn’t quite feel like home, the sofa is comfy, the room smells like the cinnamon deodorizers his mum had bought him, and Harry is already smiling at the drawings his siblings have done that are tacked all over the walls as he tugs his boots off.

“You’re quite the artist,” Harry chirps, moving to stand in front of a particularly abstract drawing done in reds and greens.

“Hey,” Louis gripes, nudging Harry in the side with his elbow. “I’ll have you know that I am very skilled in the art of drawing stickmen. This was drawn by my sister. She’s just gone three years old, so I’d say she’s a pretty advanced artist.”

“It looks like you,” Harry muses, head tilted to the side. Louis snorts so hard it burns his nose a little, ignores the warm flutter in his belly at the amused look Harry shoots him. Harry doesn’t look away, just keeps smiling warmly at Louis in the small, dimly-lit room that smells of Christmas, and Louis needs to move before he does something ill-advised, like lean in for a kiss.

“Tea!” He announces, startling Harry back a step, and pivots on his heel so he can head toward the kitchen. He doesn’t check to see if Harry is following, but he can hear the telltale creak of the old wooden floors behind him.

He’s just reaching up to fetch his tea selection for Harry to peruse when his phone goes off. Louis flushes bright red as the tinny sound of 50 Cent’s P.I.M.P. starts playing in his back pocket. He pulls the phone out hastily, fingers slipping over the case, and thumbs it on, hisses, “What is it, Niall?”

“ _You might want to get back to the station. Actually, no, just meet me out at the lighthouse._ ”

Louis’ stomach drops. “Oh, no. What happened?”

Niall lets out a short laugh, one that sounds genuinely humorous, and not forced. Louis’ throat loosens a bit in relief. He may complain every once in a while about the lack of real cases, but he’s not sure he’s actually ready for something like a body washing up on shore.

“Start of autumn term, Lou.”

Louis groans and lets his head fall against the cupboard door. He bangs it against the wood a few times for good measure, then turns around to face Harry. Harry is watching him with concern, brow furrowed and lips pulled down into a frown. Pulling the end of the phone away from his mouth, Louis says to him, “How do you feel about some on the job training, officer?”

,,

Louis heaves a sigh as Harry pulls to a stop alongside the lighthouse. Niall is already there, bundled up like he’s trekking across Siberia while he takes photos of the scene. The sun is starting to set, but it’s still bright enough to make out the graffiti all over it, blacks and blues and reds marring the normally pristine building the village works so hard to maintain.

“Vandalism?” Harry asks, head tilted to the side, lips moving silently as he tries to make out some of the words scrawled across the white paint.

“Brilliant deduction, McClane,” Louis teases while he unbuckles his seatbelt and bends over to shove his feet into the ratty pair of Chuck Taylors he’d grabbed on their way out of his flat. They’ve been doodled all over so that there’s barely any rubber sole left visible. Oddly appropriate for this situation. “Must have been top of your class.”

Harry just shrugs good naturedly and shuts off the car. “I did alright. Has this happened before?”

Louis nods. “Once, by some tourists a few summers ago, but I know exactly what this is.” At Harry’s curious look, Louis explains, “Every once in a while, the upper sixth students go on a bit of a last term rampage. Last time they egged the local upper school building. Took us three weeks to get them to confess. Luckily, it had frozen overnight, so we avoided having the village smell like rotten eggs.”

Louis zips his jacket up to his chin, then fortifies himself before pushing open the car door. It’s even colder at the bluffs, wild wind nipping at any bit of exposed skin it can find. Louis hunkers down into the popped collar of his coat, wishing desperately for a beanie and a pair of gloves. He hadn’t thought to grab any on his way out, though, so he just shoves his hands into his pockets and fights against the wind to get to where Niall is standing, taking notes now on a small notepad.

“Got a call from old man Vickers, said he drove out to check his lobster traps and saw this,” Niall says in lieu of a greeting. “When we got through the weekend, I thought we’d be in the clear.”

Louis shakes his head, angles himself toward Harry when he steps up beside him. He’s dressed only in a thin jacket, a pink beanie pulled down over his hair so that the ends of his curls flip out of the bottom like little wings.

“For a bunch of year thirteen students, they’re surprisingly mild-mannered,” Harry comments, voice nearly drowned out by the sound of waves beating against the shore below them, of wind howling against the steep face of the cliff the lighthouse sits on and whispering around the curved edifice.

The words littering the building range from silly catch phrases Louis recognizes from a few popular television shows to things like “hello” and “wanker”, but he only counts two curse words. He shrugs. “That’s what happens where there are only two dozen of you and there’s no anonymity to hide behind.”

“Ah,” Harry nods. “Small villages. Avoiding the parents’ wrath.”

Niall snorts. “Probably should have thought twice before doing this in the first place, then.”

Louis takes a few more shots of the building for good measure while Harry and Niall search the surrounding area for discarded spray cans, or anything else that could be counted as evidence. All they find is an abandoned beanie braced against the low wall ringing the building, buffeted by the wind and damp with humidity. Back at their cars, Niall slips the useless beanie into a plastic bag and Louis turns to find Harry.

Harry is standing off to the side facing the cliff, eyes squinted nearly shut against the fierce wind and the salty air. The tip of his nose is red and his toes are pointed in, shoulders hunched against the cold, and Louis feels warmth bubbling up in his stomach. Ridiculous, he thinks, once again. He’s known Harry three days. Three _days_. Shaking off the itchy feeling in his fingers, Louis steps over to Harry and nudges him gently. Harry stumbles a little, but the smile he turns on Louis is wide and bright, eyes glittering against the dying sun. Louis has to clear his throat twice to get his voice to work.

“Niall lives a few streets over from me, he can take me home. We’ll process all of this at work tomorrow. Go home, warm up, get some rest.”

He thinks he sees a flash of disappointment cross Harry’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, was probably just wishful thinking on Louis’ part. Harry nods slowly, cranes his neck so he can see around Louis and call a goodbye to Niall. His eyes are half shut, lashes catching the bronze light of the sunset when he looks back at Louis. He’s gorgeous. Louis has to fight against the urge to lean into him when Harry reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, the tips of his frigid fingers brushing against the skin of Louis’ neck where his collar has folded down.

“Have a good night, Louis.”

He’s halfway to his car, head ducked down to fight the wind, when something occurs to Louis. “Harry!” He shouts, and waits for Harry to turn around. “Do you know how to get home?”

Harry’s answering smile is wry, and he calls back, “There’s not really much room to wander off, is there?”

It’s a fair point, Louis concedes with a shrug, so he just says, “Drive safe,” and watches Harry go.

,,

Louis stares at Harry where he’s huddled over the keyboard, the sound of him murmuring to himself and keys clacking like white noise calming Louis’ racing thoughts. He’d talked to the upper sixth kids for nearly two hours, stressing that if they confessed and agreed to clean the graffiti off the building, there would be no consequences. He hadn’t gotten anywhere, had been met with blank faces and crossed arms, but then Harry had done something - had walked amongst the students, introducing himself and telling jokes that had the kids groaning and burying smiles in their hands, and within a half hour, he’d had a list of names.

“Are you magic?” Louis asks, then nearly slaps himself. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but he’s just not sure there’s any other possible explanation for what happened back at the school.

Startled, Harry looks over at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open where he’d been shaping words as he typed them up. “Sorry?”

“How did you get the kids to confess like that? I can’t work it out, it just doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s those dimples,” Niall calls over from his desk, where he’s busy tossing a hacky sack into the air, feet propped up on his desk and crossed at the ankles. Unprofessional. Louis supervises a bunch of heathens. “No one can resist the dimples and the curls.”

Preening a little, Harry fluffs his hair and winks at Niall. Louis can’t quite help the scowl he aims at each of them in turn. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, but Niall just grins at him smugly. Arsehole. Louis makes a mental note to hide his Gatorade later.

Bringing Louis back into the conversation, Harry settles back in his seat with a shrug and clasps his hands behind his head. His shirt pulls appealingly across his chest, outlining the subtle ridges of his muscles, buttons straining against the fabric, and Louis has to force his gaze back up to Harry’s face.

“I just talked to them, Lou.”

Louis shifts in his seat, secretly pleased that it’s only been five days and Harry is already using nicknames.

“I talked to them,” he protests, but Harry shakes his head. He drops his hands and leans toward Louis, elbows propped up on the desk and hands clasped in front of him. His hands are very big. Louis’ throat feels a little dry.

“You lectured them. It was a nice lecture,” Harry soothes, a smile flirting at the corners of his mouth. “But you need to relate to them.”

“With dad jokes and fluttering eyelashes?” Louis asks dryly, stomach lurching at Harry’s unexpectedly brilliant grin.

“Sometimes people mistake politeness for flirting,” Harry shrugs. “Anyway, you just need to know your audience,” he says simply, then goes back to typing up his report.

Louis stares at him for another moment, amazed, until he hears his phone buzz where it’s sitting on his desk. With a quick shake of his head, Louis swivels his chair around so he’s facing away from Harry and unlocks his phone.

            _Niall 3:43pm: I can see your boner from here_

Louis drops his phone back onto his desk with a clatter and flips Niall off without even looking up, ignores the sharp bray of Niall’s laughter as he returns to his own paperwork.

,,

Liam comes back from vacation the following Monday, tanned and relaxed and smug as hell. Louis’ first order of business - after giving Liam a quick, one-armed hug and dumping a stack of paperwork on his desk - is to assign Liam and Niall to station duty while he takes Harry on his first patrol. Not that it’s really a patrol, there’s not much to truly patrol in this town, but Harry hasn’t seen much of the main strip yet, and with such a quiet village, they tend to trade off patrols rather than all stay locked in the station doing nothing.

Harry is visibly buzzing with excitement as they get into the police car, and Louis laughs, reaches out to put a hand on Harry’s knee and try and calm him a bit. “Relax, McClane, we’re just stopping in on a few of the local businesses to say hello. No need to sit with one finger on the trigger.”

Harry glances down at where Louis’ hand is still resting on his leg, and Louis snatches it back as if he’s been burned, face coloring with embarrassment. Harry’s face is clear and happy when he looks up at Louis, though, and Louis marvels at his eternally sunny disposition, at the way his eyes sparkle like sunlight and his mouth is always so quick to smile. He’s lovely, refreshing. Louis wants to revel in his easy, affable brightness, the clever quirk of his mouth and the slow, honey-thick drawl of his voice. It’s possible that he’s already in too deep.

“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about me being trigger-happy, Lou,” Harry says with another one of his megawatt grins, patting the water pistol holstered by his hip. Louis ignores the warmth blooming in his chest and shifts the car into drive, uses the excuse to turn his focus on to the road.

It’s barely even worth a drive to get to the strip - it’s only a couple of minutes in the opposite direction of the cliffs and around a corner, and they’re there - but it feels more official in the police car, and Harry can’t stop touching things - running his fingers along the dash, flitting them over buttons and knobs like he’s a child visiting the space station rather than a policeman sitting in a police car.

Louis slides a sideways glance at Harry and asks, not really sure what to expect in return, “Have you ever been in a police car before?”

Harry bites his lip and tucks his hands up underneath his knees, like he’s been chastised. “During training. They put me on desk duty right out of the Academy, though, so.”

He trails off with a forcedly nonchalant shrug. Louis feels a bit like a strict parent who’s just punished his kid, then feels even weirder about that analogy because all he wants to do is reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Harry’s ear, maybe kiss his face a little. (A lot.) Louis shakes those thoughts off immediately, just as they make the turn onto the main strip. It’s not much, a curvy little street lined with shops and inns that look mostly empty at this time of year, but it’s got its quiet, small village charm.

Louis parks the car behind one of the inns and motions to Harry to get out. “We’re just going to walk, check in on a few of the businesses.”

Harry nods and plucks at his shirt nervously, squints up at the sky, then down the street to where it curves to the right and out of sight. He doesn’t seem the type to get nervous around new people, but Louis supposes that it’s different when you’re in uniform and there’s something expected of you. He pats Harry’s back in what he hopes is a reassuring way and says, “Come on, McClane, let’s go meet the citizens you’ve sworn to protect.”

 

They stop in at the supermarket, the bank, two inns, and the bakery, and each time, Louis watches the employees fall in love with Harry instantaneously.

Louis leans back against the bakery counter and watches Harry as he chats with one of the village residents, an older man who meets his friends at the bakery every morning to drink tea and play chess. He’s got the man laughing within minutes and offering him a biscuit from the little platter in the center of the table.

“He’s a friendly one, isn’t he?”

Louis cranes his neck to see the bakery owner where she’s rearranging a tray of croissants and watching Harry and Alfred. “Yeah,” Louis muses. “He’s a whole new level of charmer.”

Louis is contemplating asking for a cuppa when the radio clipped to his belt lets out a burst of static. Louis heaves a sigh before unclipping it and raising it to his mouth. It’s probably just Niall asking for them to bring back sandwiches.

“Come in, Niall.”

Harry’s head whips around at the sound of Louis speaking into his radio, and he murmurs something to Alfred before moving over to stand beside Louis, eyes attentive.

“Tommo, we’ve got a call from Sandy over at the primary school. Something about a cat in the sewer?” Louis frowns down at the radio for a moment, unsure as to why Niall is telling him this. Cats stuck in sewers are not part of his jurisdiction. Before he can ask, though, the radio clicks on again and Niall says, “It’s supposed to freeze tonight.”

“Bugger,” Louis curses, then mutters an apology over his shoulder. Harry’s eyes are wide, locked on him as he waits for Louis to tell him what they’re doing, though Louis isn’t quite sure what he _should_ do. He’s never had to pull anything out of the sewer before, much less something that might not want to cooperate. Contemplating the situation, he eyes Harry up and down, then says, “You’ve got long arms, Curly. How do you feel about sticking them down a drain pipe?”

 

The school is further into the residential area of the village, just around the corner from Louis’ flat. When they pull up out front of the school, the school yard is empty and quiet, sunlight filtering down between barren tree branches and dappling the grass. The front doors swing open as they get out of the car, and Sandy makes his way down the path over to where Louis is busy _not_ watching Harry strip off layers of clothing.

“Thanks for coming, Tommo,” Sandy breathes, patting Louis’ back gratefully. “I wasn’t sure who else to call, thought maybe you’d have some sort of, I don’t know, machine or something that could get down there and scoop them out.”

Louis squeezes Sandy’s shoulder, then points to Harry. “This is our kitten rescue machine. Harold here’s got pretty long arms.”

Harry wiggles his fingers at Sandy from where his palms are cupped around his elbows. He’s stripped down to a vest and there are goosebumps covering his arms and chest, body tense as he visibly fights the shivers.

“Maybe we should move this along,” Sandy says, concerned. Louis grabs a torch from the car, along with all of the thermal blankets and towels they’re required to carry, being a coastal village. Harry sets one towel on the ground for him to lie on and Louis watches, mesmerized, as he drops to his knees with a grace he doesn’t normally possess on two feet.

Harry twists around to look at Louis before Louis manages to drag his attention elsewhere and offers him a bright smile through lips that have begun to go purple. “Hey Lou, could you just stay close by? In case I need to get down in there.”

Louis just nods and shuffles closer, tries not to watch the ripple of muscles in Harry’s back as he grabs the torch and bends over to stick his head into the sewer opening. Louis hears the weak sound of a kitten mewling and Harry muttering to himself as he straightens back up. He scuffs the back of a hand against his forehead and says to Louis, “Three kittens, but it’s deeper than we thought. I’m going to need you to hold my legs.”

Louis moves in behind Harry, nervous now that he’s responsible for keeping Harry from falling into the sewer head-first. Nervous that something will go wrong, despite the simplicity of this task. Nervous to touch Harry. He chafes his hands together to rub warmth into them before fitting them carefully about Harry’s ankles.

Harry shoots an encouraging smile over his shoulder at Louis before ducking back into the sewer and wiggling forward on his belly, so he can angle himself down and get his torso in there. Louis hears a faint scuffling sound, followed by Harry whispering, “No, come back, I’m trying to _help_ you.”

Harry’s entire body jerks, ankles twitching in Louis’ grasp, and then there’s a noise of triumph and Harry is scooting back and out of the opening, a tiny little ball of matted fur in hand. Sandy comes over with a towel and bundles it up so that Harry can go back for the next one, and a few minutes later, they’ve got three shivering kittens in a bucket in the back of the car and a filthy, sniffling Harry trying to wipe some of the grime off himself while Louis says goodbye to Sandy.

“Lou,” Harry wheezes, trembling in the frigid breeze. “Shower. Please.”

Louis turns away from Sandy’s retreating back and gapes at Harry. He hasn’t even bothered to put his jacket on. “Jesus, Harry, you’re gonna catch pneumonia. Come on, there’s a shower at the station. Get in the car, we’ll get you warmed up.”

Louis has to crack the windows for the drive back because, between Harry and the kittens, they smell like. Well, like garbage.

The station is empty when they get back and there’s a note on Louis’ desk that the others have gone to lunch, so Louis sets the bucket of kittens down on Niall’s desk and shows Harry to the shower in the back. The kittens are going to have to be bathed - more than once, he suspects - but he has a feeling he’ll need help, has an even stronger feeling Harry will _want_ to help, so Louis dallies about while he waits for Harry to finish. He hides Niall’s crisps in the back of the toilet and buries Liam’s stapler underneath a pile of bulletproof vests that have never seen the light of day, is concentrating very hard on placing a mustache sticker on the mirror Cher keeps on her desk, when Harry steps into the room. Louis nearly falls out of Cher’s desk chair.

His hair is wet and curling madly around his ears and the back of his neck, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a bead of water making its way slowly toward the dip of Harry’s collarbone, visible above the scooped collar of his vest. A vest that is clinging to his still damp skin, a vest that is tucked into a spare pair of uniform trousers, outlining just how slim his hips are, and Louis was not prepared for this. He swallows thickly and forces himself to turn away, focus on the soft meows coming from the bucket on Niall’s desk instead.

“We should -” His voice is heavy and gruff, and he has to pause and clear his throat before speaking again. “We should bathe the cats, I think.”

Louis makes the mistake of looking to Harry for a reaction. He looks like Christmas has come early, eyes bright and excited, smile so wide his cheeks must be aching with it. He practically skips over to Niall’s desk and plunges his hands into the bucket, scoops all three peeping kittens up in one gigantic hand. Louis watches, completely enamored, as Harry lifts the filthy kittens up to eye-level and coos at them. Christ. Louis needs to put a stop to this before he does something rash, like ask Harry to move in with him, have his babies, and adopt thirty cats.

Louis ends up having to make a run to the Co-Op to get baby shampoo and flea bath when they realize they don’t have anything kitten-appropriate, and comes back with four bags full of kitten food, toys, and kitty litter to find Harry sprawled out on the station floor, watching the kittens amble around curiously. He stands in the doorway watching Harry for a moment, lets himself indulge just this once (or twice). Harry’s shoulders are so broad, the slope of his back so inviting that he’s more than tempted to go and drape himself over Harry’s back, stretch him out and explore every dip and rise of his rib cage, every knob of his spine with his mouth until Harry is falling apart beneath him.

Instead, he shakes himself out of that mental image with difficulty, ignores the pleasant twist in his gut, and makes himself push the door open. The jingle of the bells snags Harry’s attention, and he turns a soft, happy smile on Louis that has a different sort of butterflies fluttering in his belly. Harry’s gaze drops to the bags in Louis’ hand, and he claps delightedly, asks, “Did you buy out the entire pet aisle?”

Louis ducks his head, embarrassed, and mutters, “Something like that.” He shakes one of the bags. “Thought we might need some supplies. You know, till we find homes for them.”

Harry deflates a little at that, shoots a quick look over at the kittens, who are tumbling over the spokes of Niall’s desk chair. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Homes.”

Louis refuses to give in to that tone. He will not be housing kittens at the police station. They’re unconventional enough as it is. He walks over to Harry and kicks his ankle lightly, shakes the bag again. “Come on, Curly, up you go. Gather up the young’uns and let’s get this show on the road. I can smell them from over here.”

It turns out that bathing three kittens at once is a difficult task, even for two sets of hands. Harry and Louis end up locked together at the elbow where Harry had had to duck under Louis’ arm to grab one of the kittens before it made a break for the edge of the sink. It’s not very comfortable, and Louis has more water on his shirt than on the cat he’s currently rinsing off, but Harry is warm and smells like strawberries and, once they realize it’s no use struggling, other than the occasional attempt at a jailbreak, the kittens are surprisingly cooperative.

They wrap the kittens up in towels to dry them off and huddle together on the floor in front of Cher’s space heater, kittens cradled in their arms so they won’t catch colds. Louis falls asleep before the cat in his arms does, back against the inside of Cher’s desk and head pillowed on Harry’s shoulder, warmth and Harry’s scent wrapped around him like a blanket.

 

The rest of the day is completely wasted on playing with the kittens. They’ve discovered that, underneath the grime, one is gray, one is a calico, and one is black with eyes nearly the same shade as Harry’s. Harry sets up the litter pan for them, and everyone gets down on the floor to roll little balls filled with jingling bells and tiny stuffed mice around and watch the kittens go tromping after them. Louis catches Harry taking photos and videos of them every once in a while, sees the sheepish, guilty looks on Harry’s face whenever he catches Louis watching him.

He isn’t surprised when, as they’re packing up to go home for the day, Harry approaches him, hand scuffing at the back of his head and booted toe dragging across the floor awkwardly. “So,” Harry starts, pausing when Louis raises an eyebrow at him in question. “I was thinking I could take the kittens home with me. Zayn said he doesn’t mind, and I wouldn’t want to split them up -”

“All three of them?” Louis thinks of Zayn’s small house, of three sets of claws and three tiny, shedding bodies. Harry just nods though, a hopeful little smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Harry rushes to say, nodding eagerly. “I’ve already figured out where to put the litter pan, and I’ve picked out names for them. I even did a little research and found these little rubber tips you can fix to their claws so they can’t scratch anything up. Zayn’s found me the number of a veterinarian in Bridlington -”

“Alright, alright,” Louis laughs, cutting Harry off with a hand over his mouth. Harry’s cheeks flame and his eyes widen over the edge of Louis’ fingers, body goes limp and pliant. It’s a completely unexpected reaction, heady and just a bit terrifying, that Louis drops his hand, suddenly feeling awkward and a little bit itchy, something underneath his skin that he can’t quite scratch. “Well, uh. Do you need help carrying everything out to your car?”

Harry nods once and lingers for a moment, cheeks still pink, eyes half-lidded and dark as they rest on Louis, before turning away to gather up the toys and the sleeping kittens. A little bit shaky, Louis watches him move around the room, watches the way his long legs eat up the floor, the way his trousers hug his bum every time he crouches down to snatch up a ball or a piece of yarn, the way he lifts each kitten gently and cradles them to his chest as he carries them over to the bucket. Harry keeps glancing over at Louis, eyes still dark and cheeks still pink, and every time, heat zips down Louis’ spine. He has a feeling that he may be in more trouble than he thought.

,,

January 31st finds Louis in a car on the way to York. It’s not far, just over an hour’s drive, but Niall is blasting Jay-Z while trying to force a shot of vodka down Harry’s throat and Zayn is driving like a granny, and Louis is already regretting agreeing to this trip. It’s Harry’s birthday, though, and he’d pleaded so nicely, and now Louis is well and truly fucked.

Because Harry had shown up on Louis’ doorstep bright-eyed and fluffy haired, wearing a sheer black t-shirt that scoops low over his chest, a pair of jeans that Louis is fairly certain are painted on, and combat boots that should look clunky and ridiculous, but instead are so hot all Louis had wanted to do was fist a hand in Harry’s shirt and drag him inside for a party for two. And now he is sandwiched between Harry and the door. Harry, who keeps leaning into him in an attempt to escape the bottle of Russian Standard Niall keeps shoving in his face. Harry, who smells like his light, strawberry shampoo and fresh laundry, who’s putting off heat like a furnace, whose skin is soft and pale in the brief pools of light as they pass under street lamps along the A166. Harry, who is practically sitting in Louis’ lap in his skin-tight jeans.

Louis was not prepared for this.

He turns his head away when Harry ducks toward him once again, calls up to Zayn, “How much longer?”

“Niall, please!” Harry shrieks, giggling breathlessly. He’s got a hand on Louis’ thigh now, riding dangerously high, and Louis wants _out_ of this car before he does something stupid, like grab Harry’s hand and slide it a little higher. “I don’t like vodka, I’ll drink when we get there!”

“About twenty minutes,” Zayn yells over the music, and Louis groans, slumping even further into the curve of the car door, like he’ll somehow be able to melt into the plastic and disappear.

It doesn’t work. Harry’s hand climbs higher on his thigh as he and Niall scuffle, and Louis ends up having to rescue the vodka before it gets spilled all over the car and the three of them when Niall pulls Harry into a headlock. Glancing down at Harry’s hand where it’s currently wrapped around his leg mere inches from his crotch, Louis lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a healthy swig. Might as well.

 

The club is just filling up when they get there and the line is only a few people long while the bouncer checks IDs. Louis is grateful for the short wait as he huddles close to the other lads, trying to use their bodies to block the brisk January wind. There’s an added bonus that when he’s crowded up against Harry’s back, he can’t look at Harry’s bum in those jeans. It’s almost cancelled out when Harry slides an arm around his back from behind and holds him there, but Harry’s palm is warm against Louis’ hip and he smells wonderful, so he just snuggles in and takes the draw.

Inside the club is dark and loud, sweeping black and green lights and a long bar lined in mirror and chrome so that the room looks bigger than it is. They make a bee-line for the bar and wedge themselves into a corner, Harry draped over Louis’ back so he can eye the bottles lined up along the back wall. He’s a solid, comforting weight, and Louis twists his arms back without thinking, locks them around the small of Harry’s back and holds him close.

“I think I want some tequila,” Harry shouts in Louis’ ear.

Louis shakes his head and flags down the bartender, tips his head back so he can press his mouth to Harry’s ear. He tries to ignore the way he can feel Harry shiver against him. “You’re not getting off easy, birthday boy.”

“Wasn’t trying to get off,” Harry argues, voice pitched low - too low for a club, too low for Louis to handle in this fragile state - and Louis fights off a shiver of his own at the way Harry’s voice rolls down his spine like liquid smoke.

Louis shouts his order to the barkeep, holding up four fingers. He ignores Harry’s questioning rumble and lets go of Harry, turns around in the bracket of his arms so he can look up at Harry and say, “No pussy-footing around, Styles.”

Harry holds his hands up, face dead serious. “I’ve never been one to beat around the bush.”

Louis’ jaw drops, and then he bursts out laughing. Harry looks so pleased with himself, eyes folded up into happy little half-moons, that Louis bounces up onto his toes and presses a smacking kiss to his cheek just as their shots appear at his elbow. Harry wraps a hand around Louis’ hip while he passes the shots down the line to Zayn and Niall, then hands one to Harry. Louis holds his shot up and meets Harry’s expectant gaze, blurts out, “To Harry’s curls and his smell,” immediately regretting the vodka he’d had in the car and his lack of brain-to-mouth filter when Harry is touching him.

Harry’s hand tightens on his hip and his eyes are locked on Louis’, sparkling with amusement in the flashing lights as they toss back their shots, anyway, so Louis supposes he must not have cocked that up too badly. The alcohol burns as it slides down Louis’ esophagus, and he almost snorts it out his nose when Harry makes a retching noise and paws at his tongue with his fingers. “What _was_ that?”

“Five star general,” Louis salutes. “Bow down to the Jägermeister gods.” He turns to Zayn and Niall, standing close behind Harry, Niall draped over Zayn’s back, and asks, “Shall we do another one?”

Niall’s cheers drown out the sound of Harry’s protest, so Louis turns to the bar again and orders two rows of simple tequila shots that they toss back quickly and painlessly. Niall reaches around Zayn and pinches Louis’ side right when he lifts the second shot to his mouth, has tequila sloshing over the rim and down Louis’ chin while he downs the shot. Before Louis can wipe the tequila off his face, Harry grabs his chin and darts in quickly, licks it off him then pulls back with a wink.

Louis just stares at Harry for a moment, stunned. His cheeks are flushed, eyes already gone a bit glassy, and Harry shrugs, ducks back in so Louis can hear him over the music, “I really like tequila! And you, I s’pose,” he adds, brushing his lips against Louis’ cheek. Louis shivers, clutches at Harry’s hip and stares unseeingly over his shoulder. “You taste good.”

“Jesus,” Louis mutters. He feels like he’s on fire, and he’s not sure whether it’s from the tequila or the fact that Harry is still pressed up against him, one hand settled possessively over the curve of his bum and the other on his side, mouth tracing the shell of his ear. He should probably put a stop to this. He’s going to put a stop to it, he is. Just as soon as Harry stops nibbling at his earlobe.

He’s just turning into Harry instinctively, unthinkingly, is slotting their legs together and gripping onto him tighter, when someone bumps into his back and jostles them apart. Louis pries his eyes open, catches Zayn and Niall watching them, wide-eyed, from a few feet away. They’ve got beers in their hands, though Louis has no idea how or when they got them, and shit. _Shit_ , he just let himself get so close to dry-humping Harry against the bar, he needs to get himself together.

Louis takes a step back from Harry and shoves a hand through his hair. Harry is just watching him, chest heaving and eyes dark, and there’s tequila sludging through his veins, and Louis cannot come up with one good reason as to why he shouldn’t drag Harry out onto the dance floor. So he does.

It’s a crushing, writhing mass of bodies, and Louis and Harry lose Niall and Zayn immediately. Louis doesn’t care, though, he’s got one hand wrapped around Harry’s wrist and the other around his hip as he uses Harry’s shoulder-breadth to carve a path for them. Harry is all he needs, anyway. Harry and his narrow hips that make it so easy for Louis to bracket them in his hands. Harry and his sweet, round bum that presses back against him when they finally stop wading and start to dance. Harry and his long arms that loop up and around Louis’ neck, holding him in place, holding Louis’ cheek against his own as they shift and grind to the beat. It’s not easy, with their height difference, but Harry just stoops down a bit, tips his head back against Louis’ shoulder and lets him control their movement.

It’s hot in the club, even hotter with a human furnace pressed all along his front, but Louis can barely feel the slide of sweat along his temples, or the way his shirt is clinging to his skin. All he can feel is the imprint of Harry’s soft hips against his palms, the curve of Harry’s bum against his crotch, the twin wings of Harry’s shoulder blades against his chest, the unsteady puff of Harry’s breaths against the side of jaw.

Louis loses his sense of time, one song blending into another until his only measure is the heartbeats he can feel in his wrists, the slow grind of Harry’s hips against his own, the infrequent brush of Harry’s lips against his neck. At one point, Harry turns around so they’re face to face, Harry’s leg slotted between his own, and it’s a little overwhelming when he looks up and catches Harry’s eyes on him, dark and glittery in the pulsating lights. So Louis tips his head back and lets his eyes fall shut, tries not to react when he feels Harry’s lips touch the base of his throat, and lets the music carry him away.

 

Louis is buzzed. He’s more than buzzed, he’s halfway to trashed, and Harry’s hands all over him are not helping him think rationally. “I don’t know where you parked the car, Zayn,” he giggles, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. He stumbles a little over a drain and nearly goes down when Harry stumbles immediately after him,but they manage to stay upright by some miracle, and Louis squeezes out between chuckles, “Let’s just call a cab.”

“Don’t wanna get towed,” Zayn frowns, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he sweeps his gaze up and down the street.

“Just.” Niall makes a lunge for Zayn’s hands and snatches the keys out of them before he can protest. “Set the alarm off.”

“He’s brilliant,” Harry declares, throwing a hand up and nearly taking Louis’ ear off with his watch.

A car alarm starts wailing just a couple of meters away, and the four of them take off for it at a run, like getting to the car is the most important thing in the world. They probably shouldn’t be driving.

“We probably shouldn’t be driving,” Louis gasps, leaning against the car so he can catch his breath. He’s more in shape than this, he knows it, but the alcohol is weighing on his chest right now and everything smells like Harry and he can’t _breathe_.

“Towed,” Zayn repeats.

“Cops,” Louis retorts.

Zayn’s shoulders droop. “Shit.” He sighs and shoves a hand through his hair, glances back at his car. “Can you get my car out of impound tomorrow with your badge?”

Louis shrugs and nearly knocks Harry over where he’d been resting his chin on his shoulder. “I can try.”

“You can threaten them,” Niall slurs. “Did you bring your ‘cuffs?”

Louis shakes his head. “Why would I? ‘S a party.”

Niall waggles his eyebrows and looks back and forth between Harry and Louis. “Could be a different kind of party. We’ve got two rooms, I wanna kip with Zayn anyway.”

Louis feels himself flush from his cheeks all the way down to his toes, starts a little when Harry’s hand slides around to rest on his stomach. His belly swoops, tingles radiating out from where Harry’s palm is sitting, warm through the thin fabric of Louis’ shirt. He is going to murder Niall in his sleep. He’s a policeman, he knows how to kill and get away with it.

Before his alcohol-laden brain can think up a response that is equal parts cutting, self-preserving, and won’t offend Harry, Zayn waves a hand between them and announces, “Taxi is here.”

They grab their bags from the boot of Zayn’s car, then pile into the cab. The hotel they’d picked is small and nearby, close enough that they probably could have walked, had they been a bit more sober. Harry and Louis end up rooming together anyway, because Niall is an arsehole who is going to wake up one day soon with purple hair.

Louis strikes that off mentally and amends it to _no_ hair when Harry starts stripping off before the door has even swung shut. Before Harry can make a move for it, Louis blurts out, “Shower,” and ducks inside the bathroom, pressing himself back against the door once it’s closed and whispering, “God help me.”

He’s absolutely desperate for a wank but doesn’t want Harry to _think_ he’s having a wank, so Louis steps under the spray and makes quick work of it, shampooing his hair, then working himself over as he tips his head back and rinses it out. It’s one of the fastest orgasms of his adult life, he’s pretty sure, but when he considers the material he had to work with - Harry, hot and sweaty and grinding back against him in the club - he’s surprised he even made it this long. He feels drained once he gets out, the hot water enough to leech what was left of his energy right out of him.

Louis trudges out into the room with a towel around his waist and waves Harry toward the bathroom while he sifts through his bag for a pair of pants. He’s asleep before Harry emerges.

 

The next morning, Louis wakes up spooned up against Harry’s back, while the second bed lays pristine and empty. As Harry’s superior, he knows he should be concerned that this is inappropriate, but Harry is so warm against him, solid and soft at the same time, chest rumbling against Louis’ palm with every exhale, and Louis can’t bring himself to feel anything other than completely and utterly content. He murmurs a quiet, “Happy birthday, Hazza,” into the back of Harry’s neck, then burrows in and goes back to sleep.

,,

The next two months pass in a blur of inactivity and Harry. The most excitement the police station sees is a three car pile-up in the middle of March after an unexpected freeze. The most excitement _Louis_ sees is nights spent playing PlayStation and eating cold pizza at his flat with Harry, watching movies while Zayn paints Harry’s nails, falling asleep on Harry’s bedroom floor while kittens climb all over him, going for early morning runs on the beach with Harry because he is apparently a fitness nut and a masochist who likes to run in tiny shorts that hug his thighs like a second skin, even when it’s nearly freezing outside.

By the time Easter rolls around, he feels like he and Harry have spent more time together than apart. Not that he’s complaining, Harry is incredible. He’s smart and funny and kind and he cooks for Louis all the time. He makes Louis eat _vegetables_ and exercise, and rewards him with snuggles and homemade chocolates that he claims are healthy and taste like coconut. All-in-all, he’s had what are probably the best two months of his life. It’s also been the most difficult two months of his life, though. Two months of near-constant touching and snuggling and cheek kisses that have added up to the most acute sexual frustration Louis has ever felt.

But every time they lock eyes, every time Harry leans in, every time they have a moment, a _chance,_ Louis pulls back. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Harry, he wants kiss Harry more than he wants to _breathe_ most days. It’s just that he knows, knows right in the pit of his stomach, that if he opens himself up to this, lets himself fall for Harry, that Harry will be _it_ for him. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time, leaves Louis feeling like he’s in limbo, stuck between choosing to stay friends and colleagues, and taking the leap.

So within a matter of months, Harry has become a vital fixture in Louis’ life, so much so that when his mum phones him up a few days before Easter to ask if they can come down that Sunday and she demands to meet “this Harry you talk about all the time,” he doesn’t even hesitate before agreeing to invite him over for Easter lunch.

He comes to regret that decision on Sunday morning.

Louis is in the middle of juggling a pot of freshly-boiled eggs, a kit of paints, and a cluster of brightly colored paintbrushes when a knock sounds on the door. “Come in,” he shouts, breathless and agitated, just as the paintbrushes go tumbling out of his hand and scatter across the floor. “Buggering fuck.”

“I brought over some potatoes to go with the -” Harry stops short in the center of the kitchen. There’s an enormous pot in his hands and he looks startled to see Louis on the floor, gathering up small, colorful paintbrushes like pick-up sticks. “That is a lot of eggs. Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Louis groans, blowing his hair out of his face. “I boiled too many because I was afraid some of them would burst. Now I have enough eggs to supply the whole village.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says briskly, stepping around Louis so he can set the pot of potatoes on the counter. He then drops into a crouch beside Louis to help him pick up the last of the brushes. “We can make egg salad or something. They won’t go to waste. Do you have mayonnaise?”

Harry takes the paintbrushes from Louis carefully and sets them down on the kitchen table, then hoists Louis to his feet and into a hug. Louis wants to cry with gratitude. No, he wants to kiss Harry with gratitude. Any excuse, really, he just wants to kiss Harry. His dangerous, traitorous thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the front door swinging open and a familiar voice calling out, “Lou, come help mum get the twins out of the car, will you?”

Louis pulls away from Harry with a roll of his eyes and smooths his shirt down. “Hey,” Harry says softly, reaching out to catch the ends of the button-up between his fingers. “Is this mine?”

Louis looks down at the denim shirt, cheeks going pink as he realizes, yes, it actually is Harry’s. No wonder it fit him so loosely. He wheels through excuses in his head, an explanation of some sort, but Harry just cuts his thoughts off with a laugh and a hand cupped around the back of his neck, thumb brushing up behind his ear in a way that makes Louis’ knees nearly give out.

“I don’t mind. It looks nice on you.” He smooths his hand across Louis’ shoulder and down his chest. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

Louis forces a nonchalant eye-roll and pushes Harry back with a hand on his chest. “Don’t get cheeky with me, Styles, I’m feeding and entertaining you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry murmurs, eyes bright and amused. Louis just shakes his head and makes his escape. He’s not going to think about what Harry’s just said. His mum and siblings are here. He’s got family to attend to, Harry and his wandering hands can wait. Lottie is standing in the doorway, foot tapping impatiently, arms full of paper bags that Louis knows are stuffed full of food. His mum always goes overboard.

“Go put that in the kitchen, you idiot,” Louis scolds. “You know where it is.”

Lottie rolls her eyes and flounces off before Louis can think to warn her about Harry. It’s alright, though, Harry can fend for himself, because Louis can hear a pair of tiny voices coming from the car, and his heart already feels lighter. He steps outside and coos, loud enough to hear inside the car, “Who’s that I hear? Is that Ernest? Is that my Dora?”

There’s a peal of laughter from the back seat of the car, followed by his mum’s harried voice saying, “Oh, wonderful, could you get Dora please, love? I’ll get Ernie, there’s still food for Fizzy to carry in.”

Louis skips to the backseat of the car and pulls the door open with a “boo!” that has his baby sister squealing and clapping her hands excitedly. She reaches tiny, pudgy hands out to him immediately, so he sets to work on unbuckling her car seat, then hoists her up and into his arms.

“How’s my Dora?” Louis peppers her face with kisses until she’s giggling and pushing him away while chanting, “Roo, Roo, Roo!”

Louis swings her around and carries her into the house so he can set her down in the kitchen. Harry and Lottie seem to have made fast friends, are setting out all of the food with easy camaraderie. “Ah,” Louis says carefully as he puts Doris down on the floor to toddle around. “I see you two have met.”

Lottie turns bright eyes on Louis, eyes that say much more than her carefully worded, “Of course, Louis.” Louis knows that look in her eyes, but his hopes that she’ll hold back because she loves him are dashed when she says, “You never told me Harry here was so fit.”

“Aaaah.” Harry clears his throat uncomfortably, looks back and forth between Louis and Lottie. “I don’t think -”

“Lots,” Louis says, voice low and weighted down with meaning. Lottie just smiles and winks, though, then turns back to the bowl of buttered snap peas she’d been unwrapping. He can hear his mother’s voice drawing closer, chattering animatedly to the baby and Fizzy, and he turns just as she whirls into the room, Ernest in hand and Fizzy trailing behind her.

“Darling,” she sighs, putting Ernest down so she can bundle Louis into a hug. It’s amazing, Louis thinks, that no matter how old he gets, having a hug from his mum always feels like coming home. “So sorry we’re late, love, Dan ended up getting called out on business to Turkey and Daisy and Phoebe asked if they could stay with a friend and go to the school’s Easter party, it’s just been a mess of a weekend.”

“You’re here,” Louis shrugs, reaching down to ruffle Ernest’s hair before drawing Fizzy in for a quick hug. “That’s what matters.”

When he pulls away, he finds Harry leaning back against the sink and watching them quietly, arms crossed over his chest and his bottom lip drawn into his mouth so he can chew on it nervously. Right, Harry hasn’t been introduced yet, has never met his family before. Heart suddenly hammering with nerves that feel a lot like introducing your boyfriend to your family for the first time, Louis swallows thickly, then says, “Mum, this is Harry.”

Harry holds a hand out for Jay to shake, but she just walks over to him and wraps him up in a hug. The look Harry gives Louis over his mum’s shoulder is slightly stunned, and Louis has to hide a smile behind his hand, offers him a thumbs up with the other. Hugs are always a good sign with his mum.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Harry,” Jay gushes, pulling back. She holds onto his shoulders so she can get a good look at him, adds, “I feel like I already know you, Louis’ told us so much about you.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Louis hisses, suddenly feeling all of sixteen again, like his mum is interrogating his prom date or something.

“Oh, please, Louis, you’re too old to still be embarrassed by your mum. Go fetch Dora, will you? It’s time for their snack and I want to stay and talk to Harry for a minute.”

Doris seems to have wandered off, so Louis trudges off reluctantly to find her, wishing desperately that he could hear what his mum and Harry are whispering about. Probably embarrassing childhood stories. Louis will have to grill Harry once they leave. He’s a police chief, he’s excellent at getting information out of people.

Louis finds his sister in the living room, banging video game cases together excitedly.

“Roo!” She huffs as Louis picks her up and tosses her into the air. He settles her comfortably on his hip for the short walk back to the kitchen, listens intently and nods along as she babbles nonsensically and plays with the buttons on his shirt.

The moment they enter the kitchen, Doris stops chattering and reaches past his mum, to Harry. Surprised, Louis asks him, “Are you alright -”

“Yes! I love babies,” Harry interrupts, lifting her into his arms. She bounces a little, excited, and reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair. She starts babbling at him immediately, not one discernible word, but Harry focuses on her completely as he walks over to the table and has a seat. He settles her in his lap so she’s facing him and brushes her hair off her forehead, and Louis has to turn away for a moment before he melts into an embarrassing puddle of goo. He’s seen Harry with kittens the size of his palm more times than he can count, but babies are another matter entirely.

His mum shoots him a smug, knowing look as she passes him on the way to the table, Ernest in one arm and a plate of sliced bananas in her other hand. She sits across from Harry and strikes up their conversation again, something about goats, Louis feels a bit lost, while she feeds Ernest.

“Do you want some banana, Doris?” Harry coos, holding a piece out for her to take in her pudgy little hands. Louis isn’t sure how this became his day, but he spends the next fifteen minutes watching Harry feed his baby sister and pop pieces of banana into his own mouth while she’s pre-occupied. She keeps getting distracted by the way Harry’s hair falls over the ends of his headscarf, keeps reaching up with banana-sticky fingers to tug on his curls and scrunch them in her little fists. Harry doesn’t bother stopping her, and by the time the plate of bananas is empty, he’s got almost as much mushy banana on his shirt and in his hair as Doris has eaten. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just swipes half-heartedly at the t-shirt with a napkin, then presses a kiss to her sticky cheek.

Louis’ heart is bursting in his chest, and it only gets worse. Louis helps Harry clean Doris’s hands and face with a wet flannel, trying desperately not to catch Harry’s eye while he’s holding a baby and Louis is wiping her face. It feels entirely too domestic, and Louis absolutely does not want to go there. But instead of making it easier on Louis and letting Fizzy take Doris after her snack, Harry insists on helping her paint the eggs Louis had boiled.

To distract himself, Louis seats Ernest on his own lap beside Harry and sets an egg in a little egg cup for him. “Alright, Ernie, which colors should we use?”

Louis pulls a few over for him to inspect, then lets him dip a paintbrush in the paint clumsily and smear it across the eggshell. It’s a messy business, paint all over the egg, cup, table, and Louis and Ernest’s hands and arms, but he proclaims the egg a masterpiece nonetheless, pleased when Ernest claps and giggles happily. “Want to do another one, love?”

He glances over at Harry, finds him hunched over the table as he holds Doris’s tiny hand in his and helps her paint neat little designs on her egg. Doris seems more interested in Harry than the egg, keeps looking up at his face rather than forward, and Louis doesn’t blame her. He’s got a smear of blue paint across one cheek and a tiny red handprint on his neck, and his lips are pursed, brow furrowed in intense concentration. He’s the most adorable person Louis has ever seen, and Louis wants to kiss that pout right off his face.

Louis can’t look away, doesn’t even notice when Ernest scrambles off his lap and wanders over to Lottie. Louis isn’t sure what it is about this day - maybe it’s that Doris looks like him, and that makes it all too easy to see what it could be like for them. Not that there is a ‘them,’ Louis reminds himself on a daily basis. Anyway, he’s beginning to think that inviting Harry today was a mistake, isn’t sure he’ll be able to look at or think of Harry in the same way, and he’s not really sure what to do about it. He can feel his resolve beginning to crumble.

His attention only fractures when Jay leans over and murmurs, “I like this one, Lou. Keep him.”

 

By the time Louis’ family leaves in a flurry of sleepy goodbyes and kisses, Louis is exhausted, both mentally and physically. Emotionally, too, if he lets himself think about how well Harry had gotten on with his family, how much his siblings and mum adored him immediately, how wonderful he’d been with the twins. How completely and utterly fucked he is.

Harry and Doris had painted three eggs together, one carefully decorated and the other two wild blurs of color, Harry had shared an orange with Ernest, and when the twins had both conked out around lunch time, Louis had led Harry, cradling Doris gently in his arms, to his bedroom and watched him lay her down on the bed, smooth her hair back and brush a finger down her little nose reverently. Too much, it was all too much. Over-stimulation for Louis’ heart.

It’s not over, though, of course it’s not, because when he steps back into the kitchen, Harry is standing at the sink scrubbing at a plate with Louis’ dish sponge. “Harry,” Louis sighs, shuffling over to him and resting a hand in the small of his back. He’s tired of trying not to touch him. “Leave them, I’ll put them in the dishwasher later.”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” Harry says, aiming a soft, genuine smile at Louis over his shoulder.

Louis has to bite down on an answering grin, can feel it threatening to break free when Harry turns back to the dishes. He’s still got banana in his hair, along with chunks of dried paint, and his scarf has gone askew from too much tugging. He’s a disaster.

Louis picks at the knot with one hand, then says, “Come on, leave the dishes, let’s clean you up. You’re worse than the twins, I swear, and they’re _three_.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry protests, pouting out his bottom lip. He shuts the sink off obediently, though, and follows Louis back toward the bathroom without comment.

Louis eyes Harry’s shirt critically under the bright bathroom lights, wrinkles his nose at the food and paint smeared into the cloth. “Let me see if I can find you a shirt, hold on just a sec.”

He knows he’s got oversized shirts somewhere, ones he used to exercise in back when he was training, but it takes him a minute to find them. When he gets back to the bathroom, Harry’s already got his shirt off, is hunched over the sink with his headscarf in his hands, scrubbing bits of banana out of it while his muscles flex appealingly underneath his skin. Lots of skin. So very much skin. Louis feels a bit lightheaded.

He shoves the shirt at Harry without a word, praying he’ll put it on immediately, but instead Harry just sets it down on the counter with a ‘thank you’ and goes back to cleaning his scarf. Harry is deliberately torturing him, Louis is sure of it. He busies himself with trying to figure out the logistics of getting Harry’s hair clean without having him take an actual shower, ends up grabbing a chair from the kitchen to set in front of the sink once Harry is done.

“Alright, Curly, have a seat and lean back.” Still shirtless, Harry drops into the chair and tips his head back against the lip of the sink, blinks up at Louis slowly, patiently. Trustingly. Louis swallows and says, voice raspy, “Feel a bit like a barber.”

“Please don’t cut my hair,” Harry murmurs, lifting his hand so he can touch the tips of his fingers to Louis’ wrist. Louis hopes Harry can’t feel the way his pulse jumps.

“‘Course not,” Louis whispers, though he isn’t quite sure _why_ he’s whispering. “I wouldn’t mess with this. I think it’s always wonderful and always curly.” He runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, loosing a couple of tangles, watches the way Harry’s eyelids flutter in response.

This was probably a bad idea, Louis thinks, but he turns the water on anyway, lets it heat up while he grabs a bottle of shampoo and a towel. Needing a distraction, Louis starts up idle chatter while he wets Harry’s hair and combs his fingers through it, trying to work some of the dried paint loose. “So, did you have fun today?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Harry replies, nodding minutely. With the angle of his neck, his voice comes out thick and deep, rumbling pleasantly through his chest and Louis’ belly where it’s pressed against Harry’s bare shoulder. “Your siblings are a riot.”

Louis can’t quite help the way his mouth curves up into a soft smile. “If by ‘riot,’ you mean pain in the arse, then yes,” he teases. “Just be grateful we only had four of them today. The twins - the _other_ twins - are only twelve, you wouldn’t have been able to get rid of them.”

“Children love me,” Harry grins, shrugging casually. He squints an eye open and watches Louis while he works shampoo into his hair.

“Is that so.” Louis shakes his head at the proud little smile on Harry’s face. He’s still watching him, face open, eyes big and dark and intent on Louis. It’s distracting - nearly as distracting as the fact that Harry is still shirtless, acres of smooth, bare skin on display. This is the first time Louis has really been around him while he’s half-dressed, and he’s all lean muscle and soft edges, contradiction upon contradiction that Louis wants to spend hours exploring.

He’s still got his hands in Harry’s hair, though, is so close that he can feel the heat radiating off Harry’s body and is certain that Harry can see the faint flush that’s worked its way up Louis’ throat and over his cheeks. He needs to focus.

Louis starts rinsing the soap out, watches the suds spinning down the drain rather than the dark green and gold of Harry’s eyes where they’re still locked on his face. The banana is all gone, but there are still flecks of paint, so Louis takes his time working conditioner into his hair, using the slippery slide of it to get the remaining paint out.

“Thank you, Louis.” The words reverberate off the walls in the small room, and Louis looks down at Harry’s face, eyes closed now, expression blissful. “This feels so nice, think we could do this every day? I’ll return the favor,” he says with a hint of a smile. “Make it worth your while.”

Louis lets out a surprised laugh. “Oh? Are you good with your hands, then?”

Harry’s eyes slide open and he meets Louis’, eyes so dark and intense that Louis couldn’t look away if he tried. His voice is like slow-spun honey when he says, “Very good.”

Blood roaring in his ears, Louis finishes rinsing the conditioner out of Harry’s hair as quickly as he can, then nearly tosses a towel in his face in his haste to put some space between them. He’s absolutely certain that there are a million reasons as to why he should not kiss Harry, but he’s having trouble remembering a single one. Which is exactly why he should fake a yawn and usher Harry out of the house, rather than stand there like an idiot, staring at the softness of Harry’s hips and the sweet little dip at the base of his spine where his jeans are riding low.

Louis makes himself back out of the small bathroom and into the hallway, where he silently wills Harry to put the borrowed shirt on. It actually seems to work, because a moment later, Harry is tugging the t-shirt over his head with only a little bit of difficulty. His shoulders are so much broader than Louis’ that even one of his bigger shirts is a bit snug across the top. At this point, Louis’ actually not sure if he’s grateful or disappointed that Harry is finally fully clothed. On the one hand, all of that skin is covered up, but on the other, he’s wearing Louis’ shirt. He’s starting to understand what Harry meant about liking it when Louis wears his clothes. He really needs to put some distance between them very badly.

“Well,” Harry sighs, finally turning around. He’s got the wet towel in his hand, is using the other to push his damp hair out of his face, though it just keeps flopping back into his eyes. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you so much for inviting me, Louis.”

“Of course,” Louis says, not at all surprised to find that he’s being 100% genuine. He loves being around Harry, has since the day they met, and the fact that Harry gets along with his family means the world to him. Yeah, Louis thinks as he leads Harry to the front door, keeping a careful foot of space between them. Definitely in way too deep.

Harry is kneeling on the floor by the door while he puts his boots on when he looks up at Louis and asks, “Lou, have you ever been to Hull?”

Louis thinks of the city, only about an hour away by car, and shakes his head no. He knows it’s a very old city, situated on a river, and that it’s got an aquarium that Fizzy talked his ear off about for over an hour once, but he’s never actually been. “No, why?”

Harry shrugs, nonchalant, as he straightens up and smooths his palms over his thighs. “I was thinking about going on our next day off. D’you want to join me?”

Louis’ heart picks up, starts pounding double-time in his chest. Is Harry asking him out on a date?

“It’s just that I’m hopeless with finding my way around,” Harry rushes to add, “and it’s not very fun to go to the aquarium by yourself, is it.” Harry’s smile is sheepish and a little bit hopeful.

Louis puts all questions about it being a date out of his mind. Of course it’s not a date, why would it be? They’re just friends. Pals, even. Bros. Right. “Yeah, sure, that sounds fun.”

Harry’s smile widens into something blinding, magnetic, drawing Louis in like Harry has his own force-field and Louis is trapped inside it like a planet orbiting the sun. “Brilliant.”

They just stand there staring at each other for a minute, the silence between them spreading, spinning out like a delicate cocoon. Louis can feel that magnetic pull working, edging them closer and closer together, until Louis could count the number of Harry’s eyelashes, if he wanted. Louis can’t breathe. Every time he inhales, all he can smell is his shampoo in Harry’s hair, his laundry detergent on the shirt Harry is wearing, and underneath that, the faint remains of a pleasantly light cologne.

It’s intoxicating, heady, possessive, and Louis is just about to say fuck it and close the gap, sees Harry’s pupils dilate as they draw even nearer, feels his heart pounding madly against his ribs - so hard he wonders that Harry can’t hear it - when Harry’s phone goes off.

They startle apart violently, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, and Harry hastily thumbs at his phone through the pocket of his jeans, clears his throat in embarrassment. “Sorry. I should, uh. I should go check on the cats, Zayn is in Bradford, so -”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, of course,” Louis nods, pulling the front door open and squinting against the bright daylight. It’s still chilly outside, but he can feel the warmth of the sunlight on his skin where he’s standing in a pool of light. Louis feels feverish, insides burning up with how badly he wants to just haul Harry back in. “Thank you for coming. And for your help with the twins.”

“Any time,” Harry murmurs, then before Louis knows what’s happening, he’s swooping in to drop a warm, lingering kiss to Louis’ cheek. Louis’ breath catches in his throat, every fiber of his being focused on the soft press of Harry’s lips against his skin. His fingers itch to reach out for Harry, to fit around his hip and grip on, but before he can even twitch a finger, Harry is drawing back. His cheeks are still rosy, eyes heavy-lidded and hair wild about his face, and Louis wants so badly his throat aches with it.

But he forces himself to step out onto the front porch and stand silently while Harry get into his car, lets him go with a short wave, then goes back inside and shuts the front door resolutely. The moment the lock is flipped, Louis collapses back against the wood, bangs his head against it once, twice, then groans.

He is well and truly fucked.

,,

Louis and Harry’s day off comes in early May, just after the weather has taken a turn for the better. It’s gorgeous out, bright and sunny and just warm enough to warrant a t-shirt. Harry picks Louis up in his posh Range Rover, two cups of tea and a bag of scones waiting on the console. His eyes are bright and excited, and he’s got his hair pushed back with a skull-patterned headscarf, already so long that it tumbles over the sides in fat curls that brush his temples and the collar of his shirt.

“Well, don’t you look keen,” Louis teases, going willingly when Harry leans across the console to pull him into a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re coming with me,” Harry murmurs into the side of Louis’ neck before pulling back. Louis fights against a shiver, wraps his hands around his own knees and digs his fingers in to ground himself. This is not a date, he reminds himself for the eight-hundredth time since Easter. Not a date. Not.

“I hope you know where you’re going,” Louis says in lieu of a response. As if there was anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Of course,” Harry chirps. He waves his phone toward Louis. “I’ve got it all in here. Including some road tunes.”

Needing something to do with his restless hands, Louis picks up the tea closest to him and takes a sip while he watches Harry get them ready to go. He plugs his phone into the radio and taps the screen a few times, until music starts playing through the car speakers, then puts the car into gear and pulls out onto the road.

“Hey, I know this song.” Louis cocks his head and stares blankly at the dashboard, trying to place the voice and the lyrics.

“It’s The Script,” Harry comments. “They used to be quite popular -”

“Yeah, of course.” Louis snaps his fingers. “I saw them in concert once, years ago. I think I was like 17.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you like them?”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, trying to bring up details of the concert. “My mum let me and my best mate take the train to Manchester. They were playing at the O2 Apollo and we had floor tickets.”

Harry makes a sharp noise that has Louis glancing over at him in concern. His voice is strained when he says, “O2 Apollo? About eight years ago?”

Louis chest goes tight, though he’s not quite sure why. He nods, waits for Harry to explain. Harry takes a minute to navigate a few turns, then says, “I was at that show. Took the train in from Holmes Chapel with my mates.”

Louis feels a bit like he’s been sucker-punched. Eight years. They were in the same place at the same time eight years ago, and now they’re. Well. Whatever they are. All he manages is a soft, “Oh,” and Harry bursts out laughing, a hysterical tinge to it.

Harry looks over at him with a warm, amused, still slightly shell-shocked expression on his face, sing-songs, “We were meant to be, it was a twist of fate.”

Louis snorts around the knot in his chest, forces out, “Are you a policeman or a Disney princess?”

Harry just shrugs, winks at Louis and asks, “Who says I can’t be both?”

 

The first thing they do when they get to Hull is arrange to take the Seven Seas Fish Trail, because Harry is a proper tourist and wants to learn as much about the city as he can, and Louis is powerless when faced with those huge eyes and that pouty mouth.

“Anyway,” Harry squints up at the bluebell sky, “I want to take rubbings of some of the fish.” At Louis’ blank look, he shrugs. “They’d make nice art. I think there’s a starfish and a squid and a lobster you can trace, I saw some photos online.”

Louis just blinks at Harry for a moment, then says, “You are seven years old.”

“Six and a half, actually. I’m tall for my age,” Harry argues, and Louis bursts out laughing, goes easily when Harry tugs him in and drapes an arm over his shoulders.

“Why do I like you?” Louis tips his head back against Harry’s shoulder so he can look up at his face. The sun is shining behind him, filtering down through his curls so that they look like spun gold, and he’s got on a pair of sunglasses that are too round for his face and were probably stolen from Gemma, but look all the cuter for it.

Harry tips his chin down to meet Louis’ eyes, only just visible through the tinted lenses, and everything around them slows to a stop, fades to white noise, the world reduced to only the points where their bodies are touching. Harry’s voice is quiet and deep and much too intimate for a public shopping centre when he says, “Because I make you laugh,” and the next thing Louis knows, their lips are brushing together and he can’t breathe.

The kiss only lasts the span of a few heartbeats, but Louis feels it down to his bones, is just about to turn into Harry and make it a _real_ kiss when Harry draws back and drops his arm so he can tug the trail map out of his pocket and orient himself to the start of the trail. Louis feels oddly bereft, like in those seconds, his body had become accustomed to Harry being so close, to the feel of Harry’s lips on his, and now he feels their absence acutely.

Harry doesn’t mention the kiss the whole time they’re walking the trail, doesn’t make another move or act like they’ve just crossed some invisible line between friendship and something more. He goes on as if everything is completely normal, as if every cell in Louis’ brain isn’t replaying those short seconds on a loop, trying to figure out what and why and how to make it happen again.

He knows he shouldn’t. Louis has a list somewhere in his flat that Niall reluctantly helped him write, one that explains - in detail - every reason why sleeping with Harry is a bad idea. There aren’t many, but the list starts and ends with the safety of Louis’ heart, which he doesn’t feel should be taken lightly. (Niall disagrees, the arsehole.) It’s not against the police department rules, strictly (he checked), but relationships between a chief and one of his deputies is frowned upon. Granted, his little precinct is small enough that no one will care, it’s not like Niall, Liam, and Cher have much regard for rules and rank, anyway, but that isn’t the point.

Actually, Louis isn’t quite sure _what_ the point is, anymore, all he wants is to kiss Harry for real, wants to feel Harry’s soft hips under his hands, wants to pin him to a mattress and suck marks into the thick curves of his thighs. Just once can’t hurt, really, Louis’ heart can totally handle casual sex with someone he might maybe have already envisioned buying a six-bedroom house and starting a family with -

Louis snaps out of his embarrassingly public sexual fantasies to Harry waving a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Louis?”

With difficulty, Louis shakes off the equally alluring images of Harry sweaty and flushed and spread out on Louis’ bed, and Harry refereeing a footie match, Louis vs their kids, in the backyard of their hypothetical future house. Harry is staring at him over the tops of his sunglasses, concerned, but Louis just waves it off.

“Sorry, I’m famished, can we eat something before we go find the last few fish?”

“Of course,” Harry nods.

They eat lunch on the patio of a café along the River Hull, where they sip beers and Harry stretches out in his chair like a cat bathing in the sun while they wait for their food. Louis keeps getting sidetracked from his own beer, distracted by the way Harry’s mouth looks wrapped around the neck of his bottle and thinking about how those lips felt against his own just a few short hours ago.

“What do you think of Hull?” Harry asks, tipping his fancy salad toward Louis in offering. Louis scrunches his nose and shakes his head, then digs into his pasta.

“It’s nice.” He nods toward the river, where a handful of ducks have gathered, waiting for handouts from restaurant-goers. “We got lucky with the weather.”

Harry tips his head back so he can smile up at the sky, murmurs, “We did, didn’t we?”

Louis just watches him, amused and a little bit in awe of this person who derives so much joy from the simplest things. Harry makes him want to be a better person, appreciate the world more, Louis thinks, stomach clenching with the realization. There’s no warning before Harry drops his head and turns his attention back on Louis, no time for him to school his expression into something somewhat less soppy and adoring. And if the way Harry pauses, a bite of salad halfway to his mouth, is any indication, Louis’ moony eyes haven’t gone unnoticed.

It’s something Louis’ noticed recently - helped along by Niall, of course, who never misses an opportunity to tease Louis about Harry - he can’t seem to help the way his face softens when he looks at Harry. Or talks about Harry. Or thinks about Harry, really. He might have a bit of a problem. Louis frowns down at his plate as he twirls a noodle around his fork idly. Maybe his heart isn’t as safe as he thought.

“Is something wrong with your pasta?”

Louis shakes his head at Harry’s question, looks up just in time to see a fork coming toward him. “Hey,” he yelps, tugging the bowl closer to him, out of reach of Harry’s greedy arm. “Mine!”

“Come on,” Harry laughs, “just one bite! I’ve been very good with my salad - which is delicious, by the way, you’re really missing out. I just want one noodle, please?”

He pouts out his bottom lip, and just when Louis can feel his resolve crumbling, Harry makes another move for the bowl that Louis blocks instinctively with his own fork. It’s not that he’s so hungry he can’t forfeit one noodle, but the faces and noises Harry makes as they battle it out with their forks are so bloody cute. He looks like a disgruntled kitten, brow furrowed and teeth clenched as he focuses on their fork war. They’re drawing the attention of a few of their neighbors, but Louis just giggles and parries one of Harry’s lunges, makes a face at him when Harry slumps back into his chair with a whine of defeat.

“You’re such a sore loser,” Louis giggles into the back of his hand. Watching Harry’s face closely, Louis pushes his plate across the table, stomach flipping over pleasantly when Harry’s face lights up. He can’t give in too easily, though, so Louis pokes at Harry’s wrist, keeping his expression carefully blank when Harry turns his hand over and catches Louis’ fingers in his. “Hurry up, you toddler, I want to go to the aquarium already.”

 

They walk off their lunch while they finish up the last of the fish trail, then retrace their steps back to the river for the walk to The Deep. The aquarium is nearly empty, quiet and dim and intimate as they wander from exhibit to exhibit, fingers trailing against glass that reflects their faces back at them while they stare, fascinated, at coiling octopodes, darting fish that catch the aquarium lights like flashes of silver, sedentary rays, their wings rippling gently against the sand, and waddling, squawking penguins.

Every time Louis has managed to almost forget about their kiss that morning, Harry does something like brush up against him as they walk, smile prettily at him when their eyes meet in the glass, or, like, breathe. It’s distracting and distressing, because Harry is _still_ acting like everything is completely normal, and he hasn’t turned Louis’ life completely upside down with a simple brush of lips. It’s cool, though, it’s totally cool. Louis is handling it.

He’s handling it so well that when Harry slides their hands together while they’re watching sea nettles drift through the water, he just keeps his eyes on the gently pulsating bells of the jellies and calmly threads his fingers through Harry’s. It’s no big deal. This is not a date, they’re just two friends holding hands. Two friends who kissed a few hours ago and are now holding hands. Louis is Fine.

He moves through the rest of the aquarium in a daze, barely seeing anything past his hand still clasped in Harry’s. They’re quiet as they ride the glass elevator up through the shark tank to the ground floor, quiet as they exit the building and head back toward the walking path along the river. Louis hadn’t realized how long they’d been in there, but it’s already dusk, sun dropping over the roofs of the buildings on the other side of the river and casting everything around them in a warm, yellowish glow.

“I have an idea for dinner,” Harry says, breaking the silence. He tugs on Louis’ hand, leads him down a side street to a Tesco.

A few minutes later, sandwiches and sodas in hand, they cross the river toward the row of piers, choose the nearest one for its view of The Deep, and park themselves on a bench to eat. The air is cooling down with the setting sun, so Louis scoots in closer to Harry, lets his body heat and proximity wash over Louis and warm him as they unwrap their sandwiches and share some crisps in easy silence.

It’s fully dark once they’ve finished and tossed their wrappers back into the Tesco bag. The Deep is lit up like a beacon, light spilling out of the angled glass roof and reflecting off the still surface of the river. Louis almost doesn’t want to break the fragile web this day has woven around them, but it’s getting late and they have to work tomorrow, and Louis has to at least _act_ responsible sometimes. He turns to say something to Harry, but before he can get a word out, there’s a hand sliding around the back of his neck and then they’re kissing again.

It’s different than the first kiss. Louis can feel Harry’s thumb stroking the skin behind his ear and he doesn’t know how long he’s going to get this time, so he parts his lips immediately, nibbles at Harry’s until he does the same and Louis can kiss him in earnest. It’s a little weird - the angle is awkward and Harry tastes like turkey and root beer, but then so does Louis, and he’s been waiting to do this for nearly five months now. Louis turns his whole body toward Harry, drapes a leg across Harry’s thighs and drags him closer on the bench so he can get his hands in Harry’s hair, give it a sharp little tug. Harry’s entire body shudders, and Louis groans. Of all places for this to finally happen, it had to be an hour from home.

“Louis,” Harry whispers against Louis’ mouth, interrupting his thoughts about finding the nearest inn and getting him horizontal immediately, work the next day be damned. “I think that family over there is watching us.”

“Let them watch,” Louis whispers back, covering Harry’s mouth with his own. Harry melts into the kiss instantly, goes pliant against him and lets Louis angle his head so he can deepen the kiss to something absolutely filthy. When Louis slides a hand down to grip his thigh, though, Harry wrenches back, eyes shut and lips puffy and bruised. He looks debauched, chest straining against his shirt as he struggles to catch his breath, and Louis’ fingers itch to slide up underneath the hem, to feel skin on skin.

“Lou, let’s go home.”

The way he says ‘home’ makes Louis’ stomach ache. He sits there and watches Harry for a moment, studies the shadows pooling around his eyes, underneath his cheekbones, in the hollow of his throat, memorizes the cherry red of his lips and the way Harry’s hands feel against the sides of his neck, before nodding and moving back a bit.

“Yeah,” he rasps, then clears his throat. “Yeah, let’s head back. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

They stand up and gather up their belongings, walk back to the car park in silence. Before Louis can get into the passenger seat, though, Harry wraps a hand around his wrist, pulls him close and asks, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

Louis swallows audibly. This is it, he thinks. This is the moment where they decide if they go back to just being friends and colleagues, or take this further. Testing the water, Louis asks, “So you won’t wake up Zayn?”

Harry only hesitates for a second before shaking his head. “No, not for Zayn. I’d just really like to get my mouth on your cock.”

Christ. Shaking his head in wonder, Louis tugs Harry into a quick, dirty kiss that leaves him wild-eyed and panting when Louis draws back. Tapping a finger to Harry’s chin, Louis pulls the passenger door open and sets one foot in the car, says quietly, “Drive fast.”

,,

“Well you’re cheerful this morning,” Niall comments, eyebrows raised suspiciously.

Louis just shrugs and slides Harry a smug little smile. They didn’t even do anything, were too tired once they got back to Louis’ to do more than strip down to their pants and fall into bed, but Louis had woken up wrapped around Harry, had gotten to hipcheck Harry out of the way while they brushed their teeth that morning, had gotten a slow, lazy good morning kiss that tasted of Yorkshire tea and the pancakes Harry whipped up before leaving for work. Louis might still be so horny he wants to cry, but he knows that sometime in the near future, he’s going to have Harry underneath him, and the anticipation and everything that comes with the build-up is so worth it.

Louis isn’t even aware that he’s staring at Harry’s hands while he types something up on his computer until he hears an outraged gasp from across the room, and then his phone is buzzing.

            _Niall 8:13am: you did the do, didn’t you_

_Niall 8:14am: i can’t believe you_

_Niall 8:14am: and after you made me write that stupid list with you!_

_Niall 8:14am: tell me everything_

Louis rolls his eyes and types back, _we didn’t, bugger off_ , then makes sure Niall sees him tossing his phone into his desk drawer. Louis tries to carry out the rest of the day like everything is completely normal, but by five o’clock, even Liam is shooting him knowing looks, so Louis makes a show of getting into his own car and turning left toward town, while Harry turns right toward the cliffs. He even texts Niall a photo of himself making a cup of tea in his own kitchen, to which Niall responds:

            _Niall 5:23pm: that bad, eh?_

Louis ignores the text and heads for the living room to distract himself with some crappy telly. He lasts all of twenty minutes into an episode of _The Only Way is Essex_ before he’s ringing Harry.

 

It’s a short drive to Harry and Zayn’s house, down a winding road toward the shore. He can see the air getting heavier the closer he gets to the ocean, catches glimpses of distant, gunmetal gray water between low farm buildings and cliff spires. Despite the overcast day and the rough, stormy water, the fields on either side of him are lush, jewel-bright shades of green, neatly trimmed so that the only movement comes from the wispy reeds lining the edges of the cliffs.

Just a few minutes past the turn off for the police station, Louis turns onto a narrow road that bisects a field with sheep on one side and cows on the other. He can still see the patchwork collection of buildings that make up downtown Flamborough on his right, but to the left is all farmland and cliffs, and in front of him is a row of neat little brick houses. Louis pulls around the side of the last house, right up to the edge of a little garden that was barren last time he was here, but now boasts a riot of tiny green sprouts that he knows will become tomatoes, green onions, basil, and two tidy rows of snapdragons.

The house is small but tidy, with creeping ivy blanketing two sides of it and a bright red door that swings open before Louis has even set foot on the first step. Zayn is leaning against the doorjamb, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a smug smile on his face.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Louis raises his eyebrows and stops once he’s toe-to-toe with Zayn. “Are you going to give me the protective best mate speech?”

Zayn tilts his head to the side, considers Louis silently for a moment before drawing the cigarette from his mouth and asking, “Do I need to?”

“Don’t be silly,” a voice interrupts, just before Harry appears from behind Zayn. He hooks a chin over Zayn’s shoulder and looks out at Louis, a smile in his eyes. “I’m twenty-three, love, I’m not going to let my boss take advantage of me.”

Louis lets one side of his mouth curl up into a smile, says, “Oh, is that not what we’re doing?”

Zayn groans and turns away, calls back, “Have fun, lads. Try not to make too much noise, I’m working on a deadline.”

“Love you, Zayn,” Harry coos, giggles at a response Louis can’t hear, and then he’s stepping out onto the stoop so he can hook a finger in the waistband of Louis’ trousers and tug him inside.

The living room is brightly lit, flanked by a long, narrow kitchen that overlooks the cliffs. Louis knows that Zayn’s bedroom and studio line the right side of the house and that Josh’s old room - now Harry’s - is on the left. Harry looks toward the kitchen, finger still tucked into Louis’ belt, and asks, “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got tea, coffee, milk, orange juice...”

Louis shakes his head no. He’d been alright all day, had been content to just be near Harry, to be able to turn his head and watch Harry pinch his bottom lip between his fingers while he reads over a file or speaks with Yvette from the bakery about changing her security codes before tourist season starts. But now that he’s here in Harry’s house, with Harry’s bed mere meters away, fourteen hours till they have to be anywhere, and no one to interrupt them, he’s got electricity humming underneath his skin. He feels like a live wire, ready to burst into a shower of sparks if he doesn’t get his hands on Harry soon.

Harry must see something on Louis’ face, because his eyelids flutter and his pupils dilate, and he turns on his heel so he can lead Louis back to his bedroom. The curtains on his window are flung open, so Louis can see the tiny silhouettes of sheep grazing in the fields that stretch along the coast, the whitecaps of waves folding in on themselves past the edge of the cliffs, the distant, bulky bodies of passing ships, tiny white and black specks against the dark, roiling clouds hanging low in the sky.

The room is sparse and tidy, walls a pale, soothing gray, the furniture light and beachy. The rubbings Harry had taken on their trip to Hull sit framed on the walls, and the kittens he had rescued back in January are sleeping in a heap at the foot of the bed. The room feels airy and comfortable, and Louis runs a hand over the wrought-iron headboard of the bed, trails a finger over the curving end of an iron flower. Josh had always kept the headboard covered with a blanket, but it suits Harry like this. The whole room does, light and breezy and beautiful.

As much as Louis likes Harry’s cats, he glances over at Harry, then back down at their tangled, sleeping bodies. “D’you think we could...”

He trails a finger down one of their backs - the fluffy calico Harry calls Sage - and watches her stretch languidly then look up at him with sleepy yellow eyes. She’s his favorite, though he’d never tell Harry that. Harry always says it’s very important not to show favoritism, so the others don’t get resentful.

“Hello, little Sage,” Louis coos, lifting her up so he can cradle her against his chest. She flexes her paws so she can dig her nails into Louis’ shirt and purrs happily. “How do you feel about exploring the rest of the house with your brother and sister? You can go visit Uncle Zayn and keep him company while he draws.” He buries his face in her soft, warm fur. “Maybe he’ll even name a character in his comic after you.”

Harry scoops up the other two cats - Basil and Rosemary, because Harry had been contemplating which herbs to plant at the time - and they set them gently outside the bedroom door, then shut it before they can scamper back in. They mewl at the door for a few minutes, slip their tiny paws underneath it in search of a way back in, but they give up eventually and go wandering off.

Louis turns toward Harry and wraps his arms around his neck, rubs his lips against Harry’s collarbone and whispers, “Don’t worry. They’ve already forgiven you.” He can feel Harry’s arms slide around him, hands settle in the small of his back, and lifts up into his toes so his lips brush against Harry’s ear. “Now, I think you mentioned something about your mouth and my cock?”

,,

It’s dark outside when Louis wakes up, only just gone eleven, according to the clock on Harry’s desk, and the house is quiet around them. Harry is still asleep, sprawled out on his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow and his ankle hooked over Louis’, blankets pooled around his waist. They’re both naked, and there are purple bruises littering Harry’s skin, marks sucked into the soft swells of his hips and little crescent moons on the backs of his shoulders from Louis’ grip when Harry had sucked him off, standing right in the center of the room with nothing but Harry to support him.

His skin looks so soft in the dim moonlight, his torso so long and slim, Louis already wants to get his mouth on him again. Shoving back the blankets, Louis shimmies his way down the mattress, until he can push Harry’s legs apart and fit his mouth over the sensitive skin on the inside of Harry’s thigh. He’s been wanting to do this for months, ever since he grabbed Harry’s leg during a horror movie one night and Harry had squirmed into his grip, teeth sunk into his bottom lip while he tried not to make any sounds.

Harry makes a quiet humming noise and wiggles against him when Louis sinks his teeth in, comes awake gasping Louis’ name and rutting down against the sheets. Louis pulls off so he can suck lightly at Harry’s reddened skin and ask, “Does it hurt?”

Harry shakes his head frantically, curls flopping wildly against the back of his neck and his flushed cheeks, so Louis digs his thumb into the fresh bruise, stomach twisting at the way Harry’s eyelids flutter and his mouth falls open on a gasping moan. Abandoning Harry’s thighs, Louis crawls up the bed so he can drape himself over Harry and tug his head back with a hand fisted in his hair. He can feel Harry shudder beneath him, the rumble of Harry’s moan against his chest as he kisses him, frantic and dirty.

Louis nips his way down the column of Harry’s neck and over his shoulder as he moves down Harry’s body, lines their hips up so that he can rock against the curve of Harry’s bum. He’s still sleep-heavy, too sluggish and turned on to do much more than rub off against him, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, keeps shifting back against him restlessly, hands fisted in the sheets while he tries to grind back against Louis and find friction for his own cock against the mattress. Louis wraps his hands around Harry’s wrists to anchor himself, shivers when Harry moans at the pressure of Louis holding him down against the bed. Harry is going to be the death of him, Louis thinks, is sure of it when Harry digs one knee into the mattress in an attempt to change the angle of his hips, and Louis’ dick slips into the tight space between his thighs.

Louis hisses at the friction, just this side of too much without any lube, but Harry locks his ankles before he can move, groans, “Louis, please.” He can feel the flex of Harry’s wrists underneath his hands, can see the knobs of Harry’s spine where he’s arching his back trying to get closer, to get Louis to move. Harry’s voice is muffled by the pillow when he grits out, “Feels good.”

He’s never done this before, never fucked anyone’s thighs, but Harry is squirming underneath him and letting out little shuddery breaths with every drag of Louis’ cock against his skin, so Louis lets go of his wrist to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table. Harry whimpers when he pulls out and sits back on his haunches, cranes his neck so that he can watch Louis expectantly.

Louis nudges Harry’s legs apart so he can rub lube into Harry’s skin, digs the tips of his fingers into his thighs until Harry is gasping into the pillow and shifting restlessly against the sheets, chanting Louis’ name like a prayer. Louis hunches over so he can nip at Harry’s hip while he slicks himself up, then drapes himself over Harry again, settles his hands over the backs of Harry’s and twines their fingers together.

It’s easier now, tight and smooth, so sweet Louis’ teeth ache with it when Harry locks his ankles together and squeezes around his cock. Louis buries his face in Harry’s hair, breathes in the scent of his shampoo and clean sweat as he grinds down against him with sharp, uneven thrusts of his hips. Harry just keeps shifting against him, restless and desperate, thighs locking and unlocking around him in an erratic pattern that has Louis on edge. Harry’s moans get louder every time the head of Louis’ cock catches on his rim or brushes the underside of his balls, and he’s so tight, is getting off on it so much that Louis can already feel himself spiraling, pleasure building at the base of his spine, in the pit of his stomach, until he’s snapping his hips and biting down on Harry’s shoulder mindlessly as he chases after his orgasm.

Louis’ hands are clasped so tight around Harry’s that his fingers have gone numb, and the only sounds he can hear are Harry’s moans and skin slapping against skin, and when Harry wiggles his hips and twists his knees together so his grip on Louis’ cock tightens even more, he comes so hard he can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he wheezes into the dip between Harry’s shoulder blades. He can feel Harry’s back heaving as he fights for breaths, skin slick with sweat, fingers scrabbling aimlessly at the sheets. “That was. _God_ ,” Louis groans, pushing up onto his elbows weakly so he can look down at Harry. His face is flushed pink, lips bitten red, hair sticking to his temples with sweat, and there are angry red teeth marks on the back of his shoulder that Louis smooths a thumb over apologetically.

He doesn’t want to crush Harry any more than he already has, wants see Harry’s face when he gets him off, so Louis rolls off of Harry with a grimace. He’s made a mess of the sheets, and of Harry, but Harry looks blissed out when Louis pushes him gently onto his side, still hard and completely dazed, but smiling across at Louis.

“‘S it good?” Harry asks, words slurring together, and Louis nods while he wraps a hand around Harry, scoots in close so he can pepper his face with kisses and whisper praise into his mouth. It only takes a couple of strokes before Harry is gasping and gripping Louis’ sides as he spills over Louis’ knuckles. He’s trembling, entire body gone limp from exertion, eyelids too heavy to keep open. Still crooning nonsensical words of praise, Louis wipes his hands off on the sheet behind him, then pulls Harry in against his chest, wraps an arm around his shoulder so he can bury his fingers in Harry’s hair and scratch at his scalp.

Harry hums contentedly, mouth pressed to Louis’ chest while he comes down, and then he’s giggling sleepily into Louis’ skin. “I feel disgusting. How much lube did you _use_?”

“Didn’t want to hurt you,” Louis says defensively, tugging gently on Harry’s hair. He’s too exhausted to even react to it, just grumbles happily and leans back into Louis’ hand.

“You’re going to have to do my laundry now. And bathe me.”

“Okay, _mum_.” Louis lets out a surprised squeak when Harry rolls on top him. He drills a finger into Harry’s side and wheezes, “Christ, you’re heavy.”

“Don’t call me your mum when we’re naked.” Humming quietly, Harry mouths at Louis’ collarbone, brushes a kiss over Louis’ chest, where Louis is certain he must be able to feel how hard his heart is pounding. He hopes Harry will just chalk it up to post-sex adrenaline, won’t be able to hear his own name in the rhythm, won’t be able to see what must be written across Louis’ face.

He doesn’t say anything, though, just rolls back onto the mattress, and Louis has to smother a laugh in the palm of his hand when Harry makes a noise of disgust and scoots to the very edge of the bed, where the sheets are lube- and come-free. “Oh, god. You used the whole bottle, didn’t you? You owe me a new bottle of lube, you waster.”

“Don’t worry,” Louis laughs, crawling over to Harry and plopping down on top of him. Harry yelps and his arms come around Louis when they almost go teetering over the edge of the bed, but Louis grabs onto the headboard to hold them in place, looks down at Harry and grins. “I’ve got a hefty supply at home, so unless you need it for someone else...”

It takes a moment for Louis’ brain to catch up with his mouth, but before he can panic over the fact that he’s just accidentally brought up relationship talk, Harry’s entire body goes slack and his expression softens, shifts from amused and post-orgasm hazy to open and adoring. Louis’ chest hurts. Harry lifts a hand to push Louis’ hair off his forehead, murmurs, “Nope. No one else but you.”

,,

Louis spends the next few weeks in a blissful, drunken sex-haze that not even an increased workload or the threat of being caught in semi-public places can break. Zayn catches Louis sucking Harry off against the refrigerator at 3am one night and makes them clean the entire kitchen before they can go back to Harry’s room, Niall catches Louis bending Harry over the bathroom sink at the station (twice), Liam gets in the cop car one afternoon, oblivious to the fact that Harry and Louis are snogging in the back seat, and Louis has never felt so well-fucked in his life.

They spend more time at Harry and Zayn’s house than at Louis’, playing with the kittens, having all night FIFA tournaments, falling asleep cuddled together on the sofa while a movie plays on the telly. They forget to put the cats out of the bedroom every once in a while, and Louis wakes up with a kitten asleep on his face and Harry asleep on his chest - so two cats asleep on top of him, really. He helps Harry weed his little garden and lets Harry drag him out of bed at an ungodly hour to go running on the beach, but only because Harry lets Louis push him down in the sand once they’re done and snog his face off. Compromises are very important in relationships, Louis tells Harry with mock seriousness, which Harry responds to by lifting Louis into his arms and carrying him out into the frigid ocean.

As the weeks wear on, they’re getting increasingly more domestic, and the thing that amazes Louis the most is that he doesn’t mind it, looks forward to the nights where Harry makes him help cook dinner and they can stand hip-to-hip at the stove, or at the sink afterwards washing dishes together. He likes that there’s a second toothbrush in his bathroom - hot pink, at Harry’s insistence - and that he’s got a handful of Harry’s t-shirts in his dresser, keeps part of his own wardrobe at Harry’s, as well. Louis has a set seat at Harry and Zayn’s kitchen table and a spot on the sofa - against the arm with his legs parted so that Harry can lean back against his chest. He wears Harry’s shirts underneath his uniform, and the ring Harry wears on his right middle finger is one Louis bought him on a day trip to Doncaster for Fizzy’s graduation.

They’re disgusting, really, and their friends never miss an opportunity to tease them about it. Louis doesn’t care, though. He knows he’s unbearable, an absolute fool for this boy, this miraculous human being, who looks at Louis like he hung the moon and the sun, along with all of the stars in the sky. After two short months, Louis is about two steps away from writing his wedding vows, and the thought doesn’t even scare him anymore. He’s past the point of worrying about his heart, Harry owns all of it, and Louis wouldn’t ask for it back, even if he could.

 

Tourist season starts, bringing in visitors from all over the country and, consequently, more work for the police station. Harry and Louis trade off beach patrols with Liam and Niall, and most of the time not spent on the beach is instead spent breaking up pub brawls, or dealing with vandalism and noise complaints at the inns. Louis spends three hours combing the packed beach one Saturday in July for a child who ran off to go play with a dog on the other end of the cliff, ends up sunburnt and cranky and goes home alone for the first time in two months.

Needless to say, by the end of July, Louis is exhausted and ready for winter. He’s given up completely on going back to his flat, too lazy to make the drive when he can just go home with Harry instead. He doesn’t even bother taking his own car anymore and just rides with Harry every day, though he still argues on principle when Zayn tells Louis he lives with them now. Most nights, wiped out from patrols or dealing with tourists, Harry and Louis are too tired to do much more than pile into Harry’s tiny shower together and kiss lazily under the spray, then fall into bed, damp and naked and wrapped around each other like lifelines.

 

Days off during tourist season are few and far between, but Louis manages to wrangle them both one precious Saturday in the middle of August. Harry insists on spending the first half of it on the beach, sunbathing in those tiny yellow shorts that make Louis want to drag Harry behind the nearest umbrella rental hut so he can get his hands on his thighs, and leave him with a sharp tan line that Louis spends a half hour tracing with his mouth later that afternoon.

It’s nearing dusk and Louis is half-asleep with his head on Harry’s stomach, one hand resting lightly on Rosemary where she’s asleep on the pillow by Harry’s head, and Sage curled up on his back. He’s just about to drift off, blissfully content, when Harry’s stomach growls loudly, right in his ear.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, pinching Harry’s side in complaint.

Harry just giggles and bats his hand away, traps it against his thigh and whines, “I’m hungry, Lou, feed me.”

“We don’t have anything, you bottomless pit, you ate the last of the lasagna a few hours ago.”

“I want a burger,” Harry declares, then quickly backtracks and says, “no wait, I want pizza.”

Louis pokes Harry in the belly, blows a raspberry on his stomach and mumbles into his skin, “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

Giggling, Harry buries his free hand in Louis’ hair and tugs gently, says pleadingly, “Louissss, can you go buy me a pizza please?”

Louis turns his face into Harry’s stomach and mouths at his sun-warmed skin, smiling when Harry’s abs contract against his lips. “Make Zayn do it.”

“Zayn’s at Niall’s place.” He tugs on Louis’ hair again, a little harder this time.

“No,” Louis groans, “Call him back.”

“Louis,” Harry coos sweetly, scratching at his scalp, the back of his neck, before lifting Sage gently off of him and shoving at his shoulder.

“ _Fine_ ,” Louis grouses, clambering up so he can slide into a pair of trackies and a hoodie. He’s pretty sure they’re both Harry’s, judging by the way they hang off him, but he just pulls the drawstring tighter, then knees onto the bed for a kiss. He presses his forehead to Harry’s, eyes crossed, and says, “But I’m getting ice cream, and I’m eating it off of your collarbones.”

“Deal,” Harry agrees. Louis braces his hands on the mattress so he can push himself up, but before he can, Harry murmurs, “One sec, I forgot to tell you something.”

Before Louis knows what’s happening, he’s got Harry’s arms and legs wrapped around him and he’s being rolled onto his side, [s](http://38.media.tumblr.com/611de1ea61887cde9b0d581f60f1b92f/tumblr_mpzm4hwe0O1qe3jxwo1_400.gif)nuggled up against a very naked Harry. Harry nudges their noses together and murmurs, “Hi.”

Even after three months of this, Louis’ stomach still flutters ridiculously whenever Harry looks at him like that, brushes a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth, so much as _touches_ him. He’s not sure he’ll ever get over it, isn’t sure he wants to. Louis cups his hand under Harry’s thigh where it’s draped over his hip, slides it slowly up his side and over his back and pulls him in closer so they’re pressed together, head to toe. Harry’s hair is still wildly curly from the ocean, nose slightly burnt from the sun, and he’s so beautiful, is watching Louis with such quiet adoration that Louis’ heart feels full to bursting. He needs to leave before he says something Harry might not be ready to hear.

Heart in his throat, Louis kisses Harry, quick and chaste, then unwinds his limbs and rolls out of bed. “Alright, love,” he sighs, reaching out to smack Harry lightly on the bum. “I’ll be back.”

Before he can draw his hand back, there are tiny claws sinking into the sleeve of his jumper, and Sage is pawing at him and meowing plaintively. Harry buries his face in the pillow and looks out at Louis from the corner of his eye. “She doesn’t want you to leave.” He pitches his voice high and coos, “Take me with you, daddy!”

Louis snorts, but lifts Sage off the bed and holds her in front of his face. “Do you want to go grocery shopping, darling?”

The kitten bats at Louis’ nose in response. Louis kisses her paw, then slides her gently into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie. He can feel her purring against his stomach and kneading happily at the fabric of the jumper while Harry laughs into the pillow.

“I feel like this is probably illegal,” Louis says, looking down at his bulging hoodie pocket thoughtfully. “Violation of some health code or something.”

“I don’t think they’ll report you to yourself, babe,” Harry says with a smile.

“I suppose not,” Louis muses, wiggling Sage’s paw when she sticks it out of the pouch. “Alright, we’ll be back.”

“Don’t lose our baby,” Harry calls after Louis as he shuffles out of the room. “Hurry back, I’ll be getting myself ready for you.”

“Jesus,” Louis curses, nearly smacking himself in the face with the front door at the meaning behind Harry’s words. He tries desperately not to think about Harry prepping himself on the short drive to the Co-Op, of Harry splayed out on the bed while he stretches himself open for Louis. He hasn’t got any pants on underneath his jogging bottoms, and he’s not sure this village is ready to see their police chief walking around the supermarket with a kitten inside his jumper _and_ a boner.

A disbelieving laugh slips out into the quiet car and Louis shakes his head in amazement. He can’t quite believe this is his life - a twenty-five year old police chief with a kitten in his pocket and a beautiful, naked boy waiting for him at home. He’d never have been able to predict this, but now that he’s got it, now that he’s got _Harry_ , he wouldn’t change it for the world.

,,

Tourist season is finally winding down as the weather slides rapidly into autumn. They still have some stragglers, people who don’t mind a bit of cold water, or wanted a vacation in a picturesque village by the sea, but don’t actually have any interest in swimming in it, but the pubs and inns have largely emptied out, along with 90% of Louis’ stress. He finally has time to type up case files, pay his bills, only just realizes that the lease on his flat is up at the end of September.

The house two down from Zayn has gone up for sale, and Louis hasn’t told Harry yet, but he’s got the flyer in his desk drawer, has had it for a few weeks now, and even hinted to the owner that he might be interested. It’s a big step - a _huge_ step, one he’s a bit terrified to bring up, if he’s honest. He knows that he and Harry are Official, that Harry calls him his boyfriend and that they’re already practically living together, but Louis still has his flat and they haven’t had The Talk, haven’t even said ‘I love you’ yet.

It’s on the tip of Louis’ tongue, gets harder everyday to keep the words from tripping out, but every time he goes to say it, something stops him. He doesn’t know what it is - he’s pretty sure he fell in love with Harry the moment he saw him, and it intensifies with every day that passes. Whatever it is, though, Louis can’t shake it, is left shaping ‘I love you’s’ into Harry’s mouth, tracing the words into Harry’s skin while he sleeps, the pounding of his heart spelling it out like morse code.

Life is good, though, is slowing down around them so that they can relax a little, take more time for themselves and each other. It feels like they’re settling into the life they could have together.

Which must be why this feels like a blow to the chest, like the ground is falling away from underneath him and Louis can’t find his balance. He’s not sure why he’s only just hearing about this when it looks like it’s been in the works for a few weeks, but Louis can’t move, can’t seem to get his hands to work, to lift up his phone and call and ask _why_.

He stares blankly down at the memo, small and unassuming, written out in a careful, loopy script that Louis has seen on countless letters from the Bridlington Police Department.

            _Request for transfer: Harry Edward Styles - August 31, 2017_

Request for transfer. Harry Edward Styles. August 31, 2017. Louis reads the words over and over, uncomprehending. How can this be happening? They’ve been so happy, Harry has taken to his position here so well, he’d thought -

The front door jingles open, and Louis looks up, eyes unfocused, mind still reeling. He’s well-trained by now, though, could recognize Harry from a mile away, probably. He knows those curls, those long, tottering legs, that light, fruity scent Harry exudes. He forces his eyes to focus, catches the bright flash of one of Harry’s megawatt grins before he breathes, “Hi, babe. I missed you this morning. I brought you some tea.”

He’d left for work before Harry, had crawled out of bed before the sun because he had too much work to do and didn’t want Harry to have to lose sleep, as well. Everything had felt so normal this morning, when he’d woken up with Basil asleep on his face and Harry’s leg thrown across his hips, had smoothed Harry’s hair back so he could brush a kiss over his forehead before tiptoeing out of the room. The village had been quiet and sleepy, the station dark and empty and familiar.

Now, Harry is standing in front of him with a moving box in his hands, empty and ready to be filled with all of his photos and mugs and civilian clothes, Louis’ got a memo on his desk telling him that Harry is moving back to Bridlington in a few short days, and everything feels wrong. It’s all wrong, off-kilter, and Louis isn’t sure how to fix it.

Louis opens his mouth to say something - good morning, maybe, an attempt at casual, but before he can, Harry catches sight of the pink slip on his desk, asks, “What’s that? Is someone in trouble?”

Louis hands the memo over wordlessly, watches stoically as Harry sets the cardboard box down on his desk and takes the slip of paper from him. His face goes white as he reads, then bright red, fingers crumpling around the note. His voice is tight when he asks, “When did you get this?”

“This morning,” Louis whispers. “I thought -”

“Lou, this isn’t what it looks like,” Harry says, quiet and insistent.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Are you not happy here? You should have said something, I’d have tried to help you feel more at home, I don’t.” He cuts himself off with an audible swallow.

Harry balls the memo up and tosses it into the rubbish bin, then scoots around the side of Louis’ desk so he can grab Louis’ hands, grip them tight. “Louis, it’s not -”

Louis’ voice is barely a whisper when he says, trying and failing to keep a pleading note out of his voice, “Please don’t go. I don’t want - I don’t think I could take it if you did. I know we never really had a relationship talk, but I thought.” He feels like his heart is breaking in two, isn’t quite sure how he even got here. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Louis takes the plunge, forces out in a voice gone thick with nerves and something that feels a lot like tears, “I love you, you know?”

Harry’s eyes go wide and his hands go slack around Louis’ and he doesn’t say anything for a few devastating heartbeats. Louis’ heart sinks. He’s not sure how he managed to completely misread the past three months, can’t believe he’s fucked up this badly. He’s just about to draw back, pull his hands out of Harry’s loose grip, when Harry’s fingers tighten around his and he’s hauling Louis forward, crushing him to his chest in a hug so tight Louis can’t breathe. He can feel Harry bury his face in his hair, hot, unsteady puffs of breath against his ear, can feel the imprint of Harry’s hands against his sides like a brand, his grip bruising but welcome.

“I love you too,” Harry whispers, voice unsteady. “So much, Louis, I always have. I could never -”

Before Louis knows what’s happening, Harry is pushing him away with hands on his shoulders, is shaking him lightly and demanding, “How could you think I’d just leave you without saying something? Why would you think I’d want to leave you at _all_? Jesus, Louis, I’ve built a _life_ with you here. We have children together -”

“They’re cats,” Louis says weakly, baffled. He feels like he’s caught in a maelstrom, a swirling, heaving tide pool, and he has no idea which way is up. In less than an hour, he’s had Harry, lost him, then gotten him back, and all Louis can think is _he loves me he loves me he’s staying he loves me_.

“They’re still _ours_ , you idiot,” Harry scowls.

“But the box,” Louis says, floundering, unable to help himself. He still doesn’t understand why Harry didn’t _tell_ him.

“I needed some supplies for the calendar, that’s all.”

Louis rubs his temple, even more confused than ever. “What calendar?”

“For C.O.P.S., the cat calendar. You’re under purr-est? You have the right to remain cute? I told you about it the other week -” He cuts himself off with a little growl, lets go of Louis so he can tug on his own hair in frustration. “ _Look_.” He stomps over to his own desk and rifles through some papers at the bottom of the box he’d brought with him, pulls out a leaflet that looks strangely familiar and hands it over to Louis wordlessly.

Louis stares down at it, at a small photo of a brick house backed by dramatic cliffs and an angry gray sea. He looks up at Harry helplessly, flinches when Harry reaches out and taps the little photo.

“I was going to bring it up this week, I thought maybe. It’s the house two over from Zayn, the owner - Mr. James - is moving to New Zealand and I thought it might be nice to put down roots, have something of our own. It’s not very big, but it’s nice enough, it has three bedrooms and a garden.” Harry pauses, bites his lip nervously. “You know, if that’s something you might like to do. With me.”

Harry blinks at Louis expectantly, face falling when Louis doesn’t say anything. It takes Louis a minute to process everything that’s just happened, and then he bursts into laughter that only comes harder when Harry’s expression turns to one of confusion. Holding up a finger, Louis turns to his desk and tugs open the top drawer, pulls out an identical pamphlet and holds it out to Harry.

Harry stares down at it blankly for a moment, then looks up at Louis slowly. Stunned, he whispers, “You -”

At the same moment, Louis takes a step forward, needing to know, needing to make _sure_. “Harry, I -”

“Morning, assholes,” Niall sings as he pushes into the station, a whirlwind of energy. “If you’re planning on snogging all morning, let me know so I can go home now.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis grasps Harry’s wrist and tugs him outside and around the side of the building, where no one will interrupt them. Some days he’s not sure why he even pretends he’s in charge.

Louis leans back against the side of the police car but pulls Harry in so he’s standing between his legs, unwilling to let him go in case it turns out this is all a mistake and he is actually leaving. He just needs to be touching Harry, needs to reassure himself that he’s still here. Louis grasps Harry’s hips and digs his thumbs in without thinking, stomach clenching at the way Harry’s eyelids flutter.

“Louis,” Harry says softly, stepping in even closer so he can touch the tips of his fingers to Louis’ chest, so light it has goosebumps rippling across Louis’ skin. Louis grips Harry’s hips even harder, tracks the way his nostrils flare and his eyes go dark, lips falling open on a soft, gasping breath.

“You’re not leaving, then.” It’s not a question. He’s not letting Harry go.

Harry shakes his head anyway, slides his hands up and around Louis’ neck and leans in so he can brush his nose across Louis’ cheek, whisper into the corner of his mouth, “No. I’m not leaving.”

Louis feels something loosen in his chest, like an invisible band has snapped and he can finally breathe. He’s so relieved, so happy he could burst. Everything feels intensified, like every spot where their bodies are touching is on fire, like there’s energy humming underneath his skin. He turns his head, turns in to Harry so their lips brush when he speaks. “Move in with me.”

He slips a hand up into Harry’s hair and tugs on it gently, is rewarded with a shiver and the flutter of Harry’s lashes against his cheek. Harry’s breathing is already labored, hands clutching at the nape of Louis’ neck, his shoulder, and Louis can feel him rutting mindlessly against his thigh. His voice is breathless, gritty when he whispers, “Say it again.”

Louis slides the hand still gripping Harry’s hip down over his bum, tugs him in closer so he can rub up against him, already achingly hard. He scrapes his teeth against Harry’s bottom lip, then murmurs, “I love you.”

“Again,” Harry pleads, grinding against him shamelessly.

“I love you,” Louis laughs into Harry’s mouth, repeating the words over and over between giddy, desperate kisses.

He’s too caught up in Harry, in his wild, giggling kisses, to notice him working at his belt until his trousers are open and there’s a hand inside them, rubbing at him through his pants. “Louis,” Harry breathes, “please tell me you have -”

“Yes yes yes,” Louis chants. “In my wallet, I started carrying them around after that time at the pub. We can sneak in the back, there’s a cot for overnights.”

Harry just shakes his head and pulls Louis off the car so he can open the door. “Now.”

“Jesus,” Louis wheezes before scrambling into the backseat. He watches hungrily as Harry folds his long body into the car and pulls the door shut, then crawls over to him. Louis grabs hold of him immediately, makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt and shoves it off his shoulders so he can toss it carelessly into the front seat. “Help me.”

Harry rushes to undo his trousers, fights against the cramped space to tug them off while Louis works on his own. Only once they’re both naked, clothes strewn about the car, does Harry climb into Louis’ lap. His skin is already flushed, heat rolling off him, and Louis has to get his hands around Harry’s hips so he can hold him off where he keeps trying to rock down against him. He wants to savor this, wants an imprint of this burned into his memory forever.

“Lou,” Harry whimpers, straining against Louis’ grip. “We don’t have time, want you, _please_.”

He tries tugging Louis’ hands off his hips, but Louis bats them away, asks, “Do I need to handcuff you?”

Harry’s cock twitches and he goes stock-still, eyes wide where they’re locked on Louis’ face, then he breathes, “Please,” and holds his hands out.

“Fuck,” Louis curses, shaking his head in wonder. He hadn’t actually thought - but Harry is looking at him expectantly, is still holding his hands out and rocking his hips against Louis’ thighs even though there’s nothing touching his dick, like just the _thought_ of being tied up is getting him off. Louis can’t believe he’s _real_ , that he gets to call this person his own. Holding Harry steady, he leans around him to grab a pair of handcuffs from the front seat, sets the key down on the bench beside him in case he needs to unlock them at any point. “Just one, alright? Don’t want to hurt you.”

He takes Harry’s hand in his own and locks the cuff around him gently, attaches the other end to the hand guard by the window. Harry flexes his fingers but doesn’t make a noise, just waits for Louis to tell him what to do next. Louis isn’t even sure what he _wants_ to do next, but Harry makes an impatient noise, glances at his watch, and right. They’re technically on duty, fuck.

Trying not to jostle Harry too much, Louis scrabbles for his trousers so he can get his wallet from the pocket, fumbles a travel satchet of lube and a condom out of one of the compartments. He strokes a hand up Harry’s side and asks, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Harry nods, half-frantic, then folds his legs up, knees digging into the back of the seat, to try and spread himself open for Louis. It takes Louis three tries to tear the lube open with his teeth, too distracted by the long, lean lines of Harry’s body in front of him, tan from the summer sun and already sheened with sweat. He can’t stop touching him, gliding his fingers across Harry’s belly, thumbing over his nipples, scratching at the insides of his thighs until Harry is squirming and rattling the handcuffs, cries getting louder and more desperate every time Louis teasingly lets his wrist brush against the side of his cock.

Harry’s head drops forward, hair hanging over his face, like it’s too much effort to stay upright. His chest is heaving, cock flushed and curved up toward his belly, already leaking precome, so Louis coats three fingers hurriedly, then slides them back, rubs the pads of them over Harry’s rim until he’s whimpering and rocking back against his hand. Louis grips Harry’s leg, thumb digging into the inside of his thigh, and pushes in with one finger, watches the way Harry’s head falls back and his throat works around a moan. The handcuffs rattle as Harry twists his hand around to grip the chain as an anchor, his free hand wrapped around the headrest behind Louis so he won’t be tempted to touch himself.

To make up for the teasing, Louis works Harry open quickly, one finger then two, twists them and fucks into him relentlessly, rubs the pads of his fingers over Harry’s prostate until he’s begging for more, and only then does he add a third. He wants to get his mouth on Harry’s cock, wants to taste him and make him come apart, but he’s distracted by the sound of foil tearing, by Harry waving the condom in his face and groaning, “Please, Lou, ‘m ready.”

Louis pulls his fingers out of Harry, shivering at the way Harry moans, so he can slide the condom on, uses the rest of the lube to slick himself up, then grips Harry’s hips with sticky fingers and guides him forward so he can line himself up. Harry is trembling, fingers clenching and unclenching around the head rest, as he sinks down slowly onto Louis’ cock. He’s still so tight, head bowed as he lowers himself, that Louis strokes a comforting hand up his back, asks, “Harry, are you -”

“Good,” Harry says quickly, slurring his words as he babbles, “so good, feels so good, please, Lou.” He only stops once he’s fully seated in Louis’ lap, thighs shaking with the effort of keeping still while he adjusts.

Pulling Harry forward carefully, Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s bac[k](http://38.media.tumblr.com/602e57dbc72c9d88513c30a22ebccc41/tumblr_n74kxlSqQs1s7qihno1_500.gif), turns his face into the side of Harry’s neck so he can mouth at the skin there as he works his hips in slow, steady thrusts. Harry moans into his shoulder, his entire body tightening around him, knees gripping Louis’ hips so tight he can barely move. Louis braces himself against the floor of the car and tries to use it as leverage so he can snap his hips, fuck up into Harry hard and fast, but they keep slipping uselessly against the carpet, aborted thrusts that leave Harry moaning and rolling his hips impatiently.

“Babe, I need you to - I can’t.”

There isn’t much room to maneuver, so Harry braces his legs against the seat, arches his back, and rocks his hips in slow, overwhelming thrusts that have his cock rubbing up against Louis’ belly where it’s trapped between them. It’s too much all at once - Harry impossibly tight around him, sweaty and flushed and beautiful above him. His arm is stretched out where it’s handcuffed to the door, muscles flexing, and the other is fisted in his own hair as he works himself desperately on Louis’ cock. He looks devastating.

Louis’ entire body feels like it’s burning up, pleasure tingling in the tips of his fingers, fizzing underneath his tongue as Harry bounces in his lap, the soft sounds of his gasps and moans filling the car. He wants to see Harry fall apart, needs to _hear_ it, so he wraps a hand around Harry’s dick, tightens his grip when Harry falls forward again so he can rest his forehead on Louis’ shoulder. Louis can feel his orgasm building, coiling up his spine and twisting in his belly, so he thumbs over the head of Harry’s cock, slides his other hand up into Harry’s hair and tugs sharply while whispering, “Come on, darling, want to see you. Come for me, love.”

With a whimper, Harry spills over Louis’ knuckles, shivering and clenching around him so tight that Louis tips over the edge, comes so hard he whites out for a moment. When he comes down, Harry is still slumped against him, chest heaving against Louis’ and arm twisted at an odd angle. Muttering curses, Louis fumbles for the handcuff key and releases his wrist, massages at the red marks on it until Harry’s breathing has slowed down and he pushes himself up with wobbly arms. He looks absolutely wrecked, hair knotted and tangled and clinging to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, but he offers Louis a weak smile, goes willingly when Louis draws him into a kiss.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s mouth, grinning when he feels Harry’s lips curve up, feels the puff of his laughter against his chin. They’re going to have to pull themselves together, clean themselves up and disinfect the car before anyone else finds out, but it was worth it.

“Am I going to get fired for defiling a police car while on duty?”

Shaking his head fondly, Louis pushes Harry’s hair off his forehead, heart stuttering at the way Harry turns his face into the palm of his hand. For the millionth time since they met, Louis wonders that Harry is real, can’t believe he got lucky enough to have this boy stumble into his life, that he gets to keep him.

Leaning forward, Louis presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s mouth, rolls their foreheads together and whispers, “I know some people, I think I can pull some strings.”

 

_,,fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading, I hope you enjoyed! And that you caught the little easter eggs I left in there ☆*･゜ﾟ･*\\(^▽^)/*･゜ﾟ･*☆
> 
> [Come say hi](http://supernope.tumblr.com/), if you wanna! :D


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